Yesterday I scratched
an insect bite until I bled
an iron scab on my arm,
my knee, my hand,
my leg, my foot. No
comfort. Gunshots
wake us at night, despite
our pricey property taxes.
No rest. That famous cupcake shop
has discontinued everything I like;
the restaurant has run out of sole
and waiters, and we have to serve ourselves
filet mignon, and my belly won’t fit
my underwear anymore, anyway. No digest.
An insistent breeze may cause …pelvic
congestion. No satisfaction. I’m breaking
out and hair and flesh migrating from good places
to bad, right to wrong.
Deja vu:
strangely familiar global adolescence;
storming like derechos ─whither
norming?─ peer pressure sinking
buildings. No stability.
Events and people
we thought we knew
and loved: canceled;
our pasts exposed as lies
and sins, our consciousness
proven false. No traditions; no
nostalgia.
The techno-fix is a whack-a-mole
and we can’t believe everything
we read, but what else is there?
They are selling big kid
pants, half off, at Nordstrom…
and the library?−still free.
No excuses.
A graduate of Warren Wilson College’s Program for Writers, Julie Benesh is recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Grant and her writing can be found in Bestial Noise: A Tin House Fiction Reader, Tin House Magazine (print), Crab Orchard Review, Florida Review, Gulf Stream, Hobart, Cleaver, and many other places. Read more at juliebenesh.com.
House Journal 