poem for joey

when i was eleven
my neighbor forced me
to murder a grasshopper at the bus stop

the next morning
he asked me to meet him at the lake
and pushed me in

i climbed out with algae eyes
and a fishing lure
in my foot

this summer, the dogs will bark
at ripened fruit on the trees–

when i lift rocks in the garden
the grasshoppers move away
to hide their hearts from me

yes certainly

i don’t want to be another blue jeaned ass
in a Nan Goldin
or lonelier than the front porch
what i want is a heart of corn kernels
so i can write a love letter to my mattress

i’ll eat the milk bones
—because the dog doesn’t live here anymore

i’ll bring a kitten into this home
—declawed

the remote controls don’t work
—i’ll grow them

my dad is not an astronaut
(he sells cars)

three lines for m

you sometimes smile low
you left the t.v. on
for a dog that wasn’t coming home

Profile: Jillian Clark