Truth or Consequences, NM
Carp chew the edges of the Rio Grande
their thick, hard bodies folding over one another
like a braid of snakes. They eat what grows
in the overflow from the hot spring tubs
filled with scalding water found just beneath
the surface of Truth or Consequences.
My cat died last week. We had been together
21 years, and he was the only constant
besides myself, and I am unreliable. He
would have liked to catch those invasive fish, or murder
the swallows diving across the river, their oil-slick
colored feathers scattered across the yard. Grief
is stupid. Like the door I walked through
got shut behind me and now has disappeared. Like
the house of my past is so well hidden
I can’t remember what town it was in. He slept
in my arms every night and now I am half a body.
I embarrass myself and first wrote ‘my friend’ instead
of ‘my cat’, then changed it to ‘my lover’, but that
was wrong. The swallows criss-cross and dive,
a dance of eating that looks like joy, who knows if it is.
Their bellies reflect the orange sunset behind me
that I can’t see, and the carp continue their frantic invasion
killing the trout, and I turn a spigot, fill the concrete tub
with 104 degree water and step in, skin burning. Pain
is the easiest reminder of still being alive. A flash of gold
as two swallows twist in the air, then their midnight backs again.
their thick, hard bodies folding over one another
like a braid of snakes. They eat what grows
in the overflow from the hot spring tubs
filled with scalding water found just beneath
the surface of Truth or Consequences.
My cat died last week. We had been together
21 years, and he was the only constant
besides myself, and I am unreliable. He
would have liked to catch those invasive fish, or murder
the swallows diving across the river, their oil-slick
colored feathers scattered across the yard. Grief
is stupid. Like the door I walked through
got shut behind me and now has disappeared. Like
the house of my past is so well hidden
I can’t remember what town it was in. He slept
in my arms every night and now I am half a body.
I embarrass myself and first wrote ‘my friend’ instead
of ‘my cat’, then changed it to ‘my lover’, but that
was wrong. The swallows criss-cross and dive,
a dance of eating that looks like joy, who knows if it is.
Their bellies reflect the orange sunset behind me
that I can’t see, and the carp continue their frantic invasion
killing the trout, and I turn a spigot, fill the concrete tub
with 104 degree water and step in, skin burning. Pain
is the easiest reminder of still being alive. A flash of gold
as two swallows twist in the air, then their midnight backs again.
I Am a Bottle, Blue
I am a bottle, blue
glass bottle sitting
on the edge of a porch
my job nothing
but be pretty enough
to stay invisible or
enjoyable enough to stay
The sky refracts in me
and sometimes I think
myself the sky made
solid well someone said
that once and I like
to remember it Maybe
the rattlesnake is afraid
of the sky Maybe I amplified
something I shouldn’t
have Rattlesnakes
the most polite of snakes
they warn you when
they are uncomfortable
This snake like a baby
with new muscles
shaking, shaking
This snake saw me
as the enemy This
snake broke my body
shattered blue glass
everywhere This snake
had a shard of me propped
between his jaws This
snake died with a piece
of the sky glinting and
shining in his mouth
glass bottle sitting
on the edge of a porch
my job nothing
but be pretty enough
to stay invisible or
enjoyable enough to stay
The sky refracts in me
and sometimes I think
myself the sky made
solid well someone said
that once and I like
to remember it Maybe
the rattlesnake is afraid
of the sky Maybe I amplified
something I shouldn’t
have Rattlesnakes
the most polite of snakes
they warn you when
they are uncomfortable
This snake like a baby
with new muscles
shaking, shaking
This snake saw me
as the enemy This
snake broke my body
shattered blue glass
everywhere This snake
had a shard of me propped
between his jaws This
snake died with a piece
of the sky glinting and
shining in his mouth
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Jessica Ankeny‘s poems can be found in Beaver Magazine, Missouri Review, Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. Originally from Albuquerque, she currently lives in Los Angeles with her cat, Ms Dolores Parton.
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