Three Flash by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins
ON BEING ASKED BY A MAN IN THE ALLEY BEHIND SUBWAY IF I WANNA FIGHT HIM
I say, well, I'll have to think about it. Like, I don't go to the gym as often as I should & my left hook needs some more muscle behind it. I tell him maybe. I say, it's presumable that we both have stomachs full of footlong meatball subs & should we wait about an hour before fighting? For safety. Some people like an audience for a fight & maybe we should round up some teenagers & meet back at the flagpole in ten. I say I'm not, like, that scared of you. I think about my grandma & that little babushka she always wore. I picture her fighting this hoodlum: she throws a scrappy slap or two & the guy is scared to hit her so she wins. Nana and I go home together, arms linked like keychains. She makes me a ham sandwich. The guy's eyes are crazier than ever now & I can't make a decision.
PARTY TRICKS FOR A SAD POET
Swim out as far as you can into the lake beside your mom’s old house. Tread water until you think you will drown. Wait for someone to notice you.
Tell your therapist about the dream you’ve been having—the one where you’re trapped somewhere & trying to scream for help but can’t make any noise.
Drink three bottles of wine. That’s the whole trick. Look how you float.
In the bath, imagine you are a Victorian widow.
When your lover tells you not to walk home from the bar alone, do it anyway—imagine it’s your last night alive. Notice the smell of chamomile bushes in the alley outside your apartment. Breathe in deep.
Forget your mother’s maiden name.
Walk quietly to the edge of a cliff. Take off your shoes. Think about magic.
Buy a telescope to spy on your neighbors. Barbara is sleeping with the fish salesman from Acorn Street. Again.
Disappear for awhile. Get in your car and drive to South Dakota. Fake a British accent in the bar to weasel free drinks out of the locals. Move in with Bud, who owns a trailer home near James River.
The most important trick to learn is to be quiet. Stand stone-still at the back of a party and watch people lean against one another—fall helplessly in love.
FACT CHECK
It is a fact that four out of five poets are dead on the inside. Scientists have discovered that the meaning of life is fucking your brains out. Sometimes in the deep, anxious night I awake, sweaty, and yelling POETRY. I am dead on the inside. Four out of five poets have lived inside of me. The other one fifth of my insides is beer and carbon. My body efficiently converts beer into sadness. You know what I like about hexameter? Nothing. In the night I wake up and yell FUCK THAT FIFTH POET. I am closer to dying now than I was when I began writing this poem. When you fuck your brains out, where do they go? Studies are currently underway about where your fucked-out brains go. One out of five poets has actually murdered somebody. A lady asks me what my poems are about. I tell her, murder.
Artist’s Statement
I tend to narrow in on things that make me happy, and those things veer toward the strange and wonderful. So most of my poems are a little strange. I hope you also think they are wonderful. It's okay if you just think they're strange.
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins lives and writes in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Look for her work at Beloit Poetry Journal, The Sun, PANK, Drunken Boat, Mid-American Review, and elsewhere. Visit her online at brettelizabethjenkins.com.