Brett Elizabeth Jenkins

Failed Haiku
 
My hip bones carry/ around the names of the dead/ like sagging parentheses./ When I sit they heavy me./ When I stand, they pull/ down my shoulders. When/ it rains, they tender/ and swell until I’m full/ of an air that goes in my bones./ I go to meetings/ and stare. I go to the store/ and buy the wrong salad dressing./ I turn off all the lights/ and unplug all of my appliances./ I walk quietly to the edge of a cliff.

 

 
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins currently lives and writes in Albert Lea, MN with her husband and no children. She is the poetry editor for Stymie and managing editor for Specter. Her first chapbook, Ether/Ore, was released in April 2012 from NAP. Look for her poems in Beloit Poetry Journal, Potomac Review, elimae, and elsewhere.




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