Exit

by Allison Jenks

Originally published on May 1, 1998

When night picks itself up dropping dying birds upon us, and people order us to go somewhere tight-lipped with our hands full of papers; remember, we grow at the pace of our own hearts, and it’s laughter that spins us forward. So spread me over the world first take my fingers and fold them around [...]

Lightheaded

by Allison Jenks

Originally published on January 1, 1998

today I cant please you there are fires in my head veins are breaking nothing works Ive been trying to stand up right and tell you the stories just as they were but I forget now it isnt sympathy I want or advice in fact I can tell it all in the third person   [...]

Black River

by Allison Jenks

Originally published on January 1, 1998

breathes over salt grass and meadow plants, a mother hiding music from her children.   Fields of erect and luscious stalks, the numb bodies of braided trees.   Grass overlaid by mahogany apples that fell to feed seeds to the soil and die.   Steam and ash tremble from canyons like burning hands and entryways [...]

Nine Months and Five Days

by Allison Jenks

Originally published on January 1, 1998

Dad, for the first time in years, picked us all up.   I sat in back with my sister. Mom was next to him up front. They talked and laughed.   We had never been in a car together, all of us in such a small space.   I wonder how it would have been [...]