Jules Jacob

Pensé Que Estabas Muerto
October 24, 2018 Jules Jacob

Pensé Que Estabas Muerto
 

 
but your deaths existed the nights you didn’t come home.
The first instant in the Toyota Corolla, the fourth slow
glass-pierced torsoface perfect for an open casket.
 
The night I was pregnant and a call from two women
prompted your exit, you ingested sacred datura seeds.
I killed you with seizures. I killed you with cardiac arrest.
 
I killed you with the Old Man of the Mountain’s face before it fell.
Pero tus muertes fue hace décadas.
 
When I plant ornamental Ricinus and green berries
form on lantana I consider another man now.
He dies from pulmonary edema. He dies from kidney failure.
 
When bees hum of cousins producing one-hundred
and fifty pounds of honey a year for their previous
owners, he dies in a billow of yellow and black.
 
Antes de morir cantando, fuimos nosotros. ¡Fuimos nosotros!
With melittin and anaphylactic shock in the Rose Garden.

Julie “Jules” Jacob’s poems are featured or forthcoming in The Tishman ReviewGlass: A Journal of PoetryRust + Moth, Watershed ReviewYes Poetry and elsewhere. Her poetry has been paired with artwork and transformed into pictographs at the Colorado Gallery of the Arts and Le Moulin à Nef. She’s the author of The Glass Sponge and resident of the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts Poetry Workshop. Visit julesjacob.com