Jennifer H. Fortin
from We Lack in Equipment & Control
Plexiglass has supplanted the ruining fence around the flame. It was a question of focus. There was no choice in the hosting, but there was a choice to love. See how it gets restored, discordant stewards, white-gloved, escorting us to our cabins. "Poor judgment," not misconduct, claims the aide. Where before I'd call back each nut & bolt from our time apart, gather & give them to you in an unsealed envelope, now there are impressions I hurl onto the summit, out of view until the future brakes or probably until always. As a child I hated eggplant for how it was put together (not for the thing itself), picked them from the garden & hurled those bad boys on top of the shed. As though they'd never be discovered when the roof needed repair. As though they'd borne the brunt in their bed & now would live a refined existence off the grid. As though the jockeys circling my brother's car picked up through the cracked windows snippets & these gestated. The weight-limited riders, professionally guiding some movement, they finagled happiness via eavesdropped collage & imparted it by way of a special portal alerting me to unbruised command. If that's not decadence then what is. It's a question of focus. The origin of "brunt" is perhaps the Middle English sexual assault, akin to heat, akin to itch.
Jennifer H. Fortin responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying her for her poems.