On Using Your Arm as an Airbag

I like to think of myself as holding the world in my hands.

Not

power-hungry holding the world or

God-complex holding the world –

although feminism is fun

(however abused

and cliché.)

That is not my meaning.

I hold the world because

I took a personality test and got

Blue.

Mother.

Grandmother.

Peanut butter cookies and a La-Z-Boy rocking –

and I’m told

I’m a really good kisser.

Nevermind I have a natural inclination

to self-sacrifice

and listen

to bleed from the heart.

Careful it doesn’t    break.

Such a precarious thing.

Volatile,
precarious
snow globe
of a thing.

I’ll take these small hands

and stretch them
out

   cradle you all

   in a vast
      palm basin.

I can take you on my shoulders,

a piggy-ride home –

Kneel down beside you
to take up oak mantle.

I’ll help you    carry that

up the rest of the hill.

Untitled (A Familial Ode)

The toilet paper roll

must be underturned,

    not over –

The coffee filters doubled, because

any less than two

      makes for weak brew.

You love a cold glass of milk

  just after a nap

and before you go

to bed.

Your toenail shards

dot carpet

  between coffee table

and couch.

You save

papers and papers

receipts, bill stubs –

coupons

    way past date,

        littered across the counter.

There is not

one shirt in your closet

that has escaped

  a ketchup

         dribble.

You lean

across the checkout

counter to hear

your total one more time –

your aidless ear

    inclined.

The hairs on your head

hold beige blonde

like a lungful of breath.

Your burst of laugh

and temper flare –

worrisome cough

of cigarette air.

Quick to feel

and full of wounds,

   still grateful

and happy

at the little things –

and I have never

loved a man

           so much.

"Open Your World"

Easily said
from within a town
you rush through at 50
even though
the sign says
35
flanked
by broken truck cemeteries
dirty dishwater
houses
paint chipping and
gutters drooping off --

You must say this from behind
your paraphernalia
sparkling and winding
magic trinkets
propped in your patch of yard.

Would I succeed
in the same 900 square feet
without spinning wheels or
stationary flying things
with my old 9-by-11
a novice organ for a tool,
so diluted by talk in grocery stores
and small-pond politics --
"yea" if suffocated,
"yea" if not.

Remove fact --
introduce
relativity.
Please tell me
how windmills and pictures of globes
opens the world up
for me.


This is a place
flanked by rusty tin cemeteries
where you rush through at 50
even though the sign says
35

Bra-Burning Series // Old Spice

Is this men's deodorant? I ask, fish it out of the toiletry bag. Yeah! Pop cap, smear a couple swipes under-shirt. It works better, she said, as I looked on--wonder and inspiration growing in my eyes. It would, wouldn't it? It's made for sweat. Girls sweat, too! I said, and put tube to hand, So why do we get the weak shit? Pop again, smear, smear. She smiled at me knowingly. In an hour, we'd strut into the bar full of legs and fruity versions of vodka and frat boys smelling like a couple of them.

Bra-Burning Series // Adding to the Wreck

I have signed all of my poems
Jessica M. Lundquist.
That is my name.


But upon consideration of the Book of Myths
and all who have gone before me –
namely, George, Harper Lee, and Adrienne herself


and in keeping with the constructs
of an archaic, disoriented
and slow-advancing society


I think I will employ a fitting alias; perhaps
J. Lundquist, or even
J. M.

La Marcha (The March)

        The revolution came to me muffled at first, sounding from five stories below outside a closed patio door. The rhythmic

BOOM! Boom! BOOM! Boom!

beckoned me out to the balcony. No sooner had I slid the screen aside than the drums, in honest and brutal clarity, attacked me entirely. Pounding in my ears, echoing in my brain, vibrating up my shins, their bursts scattered into every particle of frigid air and settled into every crevice of brick. I had emerged from the box of the apartment into a world of shouted symphony, of tribal roar.

        There must have been a thousand marching, clustered and organized, eyes on fire and voices projected in song. The masses, each led by a single amplified voice, were separated into distinct ballads of equality and great, shining banners:

CONFEDERACIÓN GENERAL DEL TRABAJO

UNIÓN SINDICAL ARGENTINA

CONFEDERACIÓN OBRERA ARGENTINA

        Forward they marched: a colony of whites and morochos, of mothers and children, of leaders, of pot-bangers, of tambourine-thumpers – the working Argentina – toward their lady Cristina along La Avenida de Mayo.

        Though the wintry August air drew my arms across my chest, I stayed rooted to the balcony’s edge and leaned out as far as the railing allowed. Transfixed, I watched, I absorbed, I dissolved into this union march.

        I snapped moments through a slim Nikon until I forfeited the effort to capture a magic elusive. I recorded a segment of blaring war cry that I later discovered rendered choppy and incoherent. I watched until my eyes pooled with tears in combat against the cold.

        It was one of many, this march; but be as it may a mere line in a book, I’ll exist behind the words. This march raged below me on this evening as I stood, melding into it outside an old apartment on that avenue. I am there in the part you will never read – in the part indescribable – leaning out over the rail of a balcony five stories up, eager not to miss a blink of history in the making.