Jen Coleman - Poetry

Friday Nov 22

On Hiatus

Jen Coleman dropped out of high school. She holds an MFA from Hollins University, where she was awarded a full fellowship. Her work has recently appeared in Mêlée Live, Four and Twenty, and The Jackson Hole Review, and is forthcoming in The Innisfree Poetry Journal. She currently teaches English at Lynchburg College and lives in Roanoke, Virginia, with her two Manx cats.

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My Lucky Mosquito

The black body, its half-

stapled legs splayed,

edges a fierce pond

that is blood—my blood—

on your arm, which you

display proud: see

this vindication? see

you here on me hot

and raw?You flick

the dead; the smear

flashes red fresh

on your skin and your lips

surround it, suck, pull

my heart’s contents

into your mouth.

Cloud To You

“All my life I’ve been made to feel

I’m doing something wrong,” you say.

We advance down the mountain

to beat the storm’s dark, drenching

expanse. It is Independence Day.

Your magnetic, impervious

persona’s become a career:

such contortions to dodge the real

or imagined reproachful

glances of God, dead relatives,

the ranting city, your jealous friend.

I am one of your supposed sins.

The cell approaches; your pace quickens,

as if—what? You’ll be singled out,

exposed, and struck? There are three

types of lightning: ground to cloud,

cloud to cloud, cloud to ground.

You think there are four.

The air’s blanched ions rip, flash

loud megajoules through nearby trees.

You shout, and I am disarmed—

because you’re frightened,

stricken, just about in flight.

Astraphobia is so revealing.

Skies rage and threaten;

you won’t be undone. Still,

I take your rain-lanced hand and run.