Poetry by Jenna Moore
The Truth about Penelope
Jenna Moore
The damned dog was always howling
for a man that is not coming,
relinquished the right to pillow
against her chest, sweat slicked skin.
Her fingertips followed climax
of waves churning, touching, their bedroom
window, pounding ceaselessly against the shore.
A moment passed – envious of this sea
for knowing the lines of his body,
for the seduction holding him.
Her lungs do not remember the taste
his breath hanging over parched lips,
her palms only know the coarse
fibers in that hateful tapestry. Maybe
she should finish.
Fears for My War Boys
Jenna Moore
Will you come back jagged,
pieces of a dropped Yuengling
bottle you and your friends let slip
through playful, invincible fingertips.
Will your childhood monsters
grow, grow, grow in the closets
until the doors stick and snag
on shiny black boots or khaki sleeves.
Will the video games downstairs
sizzle as disuse weakens connections
become outdated, unknown, fall
behind the TV - lost for years.
Will you exchange, for the jars of dark paint
meant to protect you, transform you unknown
bubbling laughter floating to the sky
bursting when it has had too much.
Posted 3 years ago & Filed under jenna moore, issue 6, the collegian, washington college, 1 note
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