Our wits had fled
on tiptoe.
It was morning,
though, the butterscotch
sun swirled among
clouds, when we
first noticed. Pain splashed
vibrant and ugly,
a Christmas sweater of black
cats. It was spring.
Not like now, winter’s bite
leaves teeth marks
on our bones. We bang
our heads and search
scrambled brains.
We remember meeting you,
the synapse-snap
audible, pleasant, like
castanets and margaritas
trickling in tongues, ears.
You were worth it
to us.
Jennifer Ruth Jackson is an award-winning poet and fiction writer whose work has appeared in Red Earth Review, Banshee, and more. She runs a blog for disabled and/or neurodivergent writers called The Handy, Uncapped Pen from an apartment she shares with her husband. Follow her on Twitter @jenruthjackson.
Sparks of Calliope 