Two from Jessie Harrison
In Case You Missed It, We Aren’t Friends Anymore
And we were just friends—
Who posted each other on Instagram every day,
And texted each other goodnight,
Even when she kept bringing up that she saw my boobs
When I needed help getting into a hospital gown
When she took me to the ER—
And now we’re nothing,
And we don’t go to each other’s shows,
And she doesn’t read my poetry anymore,
And she’s just the flash of anger
When someone forgets to text back,
And the reason I don’t talk about the eating disorder.
I want to rip the butterfly clips out of her hair—
She used to say butterflies were my thing—
But we only knew each other for one summer,
So I need to suck it up and accept that butterflies
Maybe aren’t that special,
Maybe aren’t mine.
Your Language
He showed me photos in shoeboxes,
Filled with Shakespeare and Dickens and Shelley,
Photos of a mother who thought her son
A gothic hero, a handsome martyr
To sacrifice on the altar of her suffering.
You have a complex,
But your son isn’t Oedipus,
So he left his home for a postmodernist
Who speaks your language better than you.
And your pillow talk may be Hamlet,
But the Bible was the belt I beat myself bloody with,
And I can spot Abraham and Isaac anywhere,
Even if Isaac isn’t the type to pray,
And Abraham has blue hair.
You cannot call it love—
The way your house is heavy with duty,
How even the cat tiptoes around your tears,
And you cannot make him a monster
For growing past your demands and whims.
Jessie Anne Harrison (she/her) is a poet from Houston, Texas, currently located in Utah. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Arcadia University and juggles writing with teaching and acting. Her poetry is rooted in grief, religious deconstruction, and the beauty of rebuilding. You can find a list of her previous publications in the "About" section of her blog, allthebestjess.wordpress.com.
