Jennifer Lothrigel: As If They Were My Own Mouth
Guardian
When the afternoon light
is invited in,
the adobe walls rejoice,
the grout glistens, even the unlit
blue tiles
beyond the sun’s reach
feel alright.
I am there
taming the curtains,
showing you how to leaven
the dough for tomorrow’s
rise.
I place the daffodils face down
in a vase, their ribboned
petals smooshed
against the bottom
of the glass.
I keep
watch of the door
like a fatherless child.
I make your lunch,
the door mat aches,
the daffodils are
drowning.
You’ll never know
how destitute
gets in.
The Chorus of Indestructible Emptiness
I am drunk on milky
void and
red kazoo
from slobbery lips,
moist jungle bird
courtship dances,
the soprano section’s lifted
rib cages,
as if they were
my own mouth
whirling its dervish
ego
I want to tell you
about the parts of me
that are alien.
Do you have a tin can and a string?
Jennifer Lothrigel is a poet and artist in the San Francisco Bay area. Her chapbook 'Pneuma' was published last year through Liquid Light Press. Her work has also been published in Arcturus, Deracine, Rag Queen Periodical, Peeking Cat Poetry, We'Moon and elsewhere.
