The night our dog gorged herself
      on boiled sweets and lost
all interest in the scent of meat —
      chewing and chewing the aniseed
flavoured candy papers into a ball
      and eying me with the glazed resoluteness
of an addict

I saw myself
   when I didn’t write —
too full and crushing the poems
    that found me into the street’s shadows
even as their journeys were rising
    beneath my feet —

or else I stuffed them inside letting
     their verses sing in and out
of my other thoughts — their sounds glowing —
     licking the space between
meaning and feeling
    to thinner and thinner slivers

until I finally let them tumble away
     from me like beetles flicking
through wet grass and into the throats
     of magnolias, useless and rolling
in the stickiness of scent.

The night our dog gorged herself
      on boiled sweets and lost
all interest in the scent of meat —
      chewing and chewing the aniseed
flavoured candy papers into a ball
      and eying me with the glazed resoluteness
of an addict

I saw myself
   when I didn’t write —
too full and crushing the poems
    that found me into the street’s shadows
even as their journeys were rising
    beneath my feet —

or else I stuffed them inside letting
     their verses sing in and out
of my other thoughts — their sounds glowing —
     licking the space between
meaning and feeling
    to thinner and thinner slivers

until I finally let them tumble away
     from me like beetles flicking
through wet grass and into the throats
     of magnolias, useless and rolling
in the stickiness of scent.

Jenny is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites. Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats. You can read more of her poems at her website. 

You can find more of Jenny’s work here on Ink Pantry.

She posts notices around town, throughout local papers, appeals for help in the investigation, promises a reward for any information leading to recovery, or apprehension of the party responsible for disappearance. Language civil, urgent, pleading. All couched in iambic pentameter. From the milling crowds, through blinds, across different sundry streets the whole of Olympus stares back at her pitifully, eyes grim with knowledge, mute to a person.

see something
say nothing
unwaxed floss
lips’ crude
stitching

Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. His first full-length collections of poetry Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.

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You can find more of Jerome’s work here on Ink Pantry.