death by water

sometimes I pretend to be the hanging Sybil

(sometimes I am, wanting to die)

when I was little I was a prophet,

but now my dreams make less sense

 

how many more days

how many more days can I spend

this close, gazing over the edge

running a hand softly to ripple the

still destruction that could drown me—

 

to ask myself the question would be

like standing naked on a jagged rock shore,

waiting for the ocean spray,

or a tsunami.

 

© Alexandra Jema

an early morning poem

a controlled bleeding, like an

expensive experiment, like trying to squeeze

my heart for words when they come from my head,

rolling around like tumbling babies I would never have:

feeling like an accidental mother in the morning eyelid fumbling

something missing in the middle,

cut out, torn, invisible.

© Alexandra Jema

winter, 2012

part 1

I never knew I would come to love the way your sweater fits over your head or the way you don’t get up right away in the mornings. I savour the long nights in your bed when we are too hot from the blankets but too cold without. Your cologne makes me cry sometimes. In January I always just want to sleep all day. You bring me coffee but the sadness is still there under the sheets with me. Sometimes I don’t want to open my eyes and I get stomach aches. I write poetry to pass the time and you are all over the place. Your old sweater is my tear catcher. When you leave at night I always run upstairs and watch you drive around the corner. I want to see you leave, just so I can make sure you never do. All I want to do is not become the sadness in your heart, that frost on your chest.

part 2

the darkness descends

deep, it settles on my bones

like ominous snow

 

 

© Alexandra Jema