JenniferCampbell

Without my glasses on

Out the patio window

the grill takes your shape-

the dark bulk of your body,

arms outstretched, waiting.

Some nights I lay in bed, watching for

a sign, a red light, announcing

your plane's arrival. Perhaps the smoke

alarm battery just needs replacing.

Numbers on the clock melt

but it's not worth the effort

to squint-I enjoy knowing time

moves without me watching.

The messy right angles of life soften,

yet a wonderful, justified terror lies

in not seeing the medicine cabinet edge

that once left a purple welt.

A millimeter-sized slice of corneal

tissue gives me a strange palette

of blended colors to see through,

permission to pretend I don't hear

when a child calls my name, lost in

the abstract blur of solitude.

Wiry frames collect dust on the nightstand,

a flattened shadow slips along the wall.

The Many Colors of Sound

People tried to tell me there were no cicadas

in our part of the country, but I knew their rising,

enchanting whorl and it called to me more

than the laughter of teenagers sneaking

to the woods to smoke, drink, discover

their bodies. Lying in bed atop sheets spritzed

with cold water, I spent summers decoding

each mysterious message of the night:

The neighbors' bug zapper glowed with an electric

blue light, but the arresting sound of insects

pinned by the current was a purgatorial white.

The cicadas singing in my best friend's tree

were easy to name: they began with the pale yellow

of indecision and wound into screaming gold triumph.

Every 4th of July, we doused sparklers

in a mop bucket full of water. I craved

the silver hiss, burned three, four at a time

to listen for the chuff as their fates were sealed.

My childhood patrols didn't quite prepare me

to meet the lightning bugs. Tonight, I stare down

the dark for their silent flashbulb shocks

but no color is left behind, only a void in the humid air.

How to View Van Gogh's Irises

Lush, verdant, nearly overripe

with life, the flowers are not

apocalyptic symbols, no inkblot

test, but a study in organic

shape and color. Intermediate

Bearded Irises, native to Europe,

are planted in full sun. They require

little maintenance, withstand

any number of natural abuses.

Wrinkled indigo petals are stronger

than they appear; cross-hatched

sinews ripple the surface.

A delicate perfume dissipates

the moment the buds mature.

Believing mere flowers drove

the artist crazy is like believing

that Macbeth, who proudly

and efficiently slashed his enemy

from crown to sole before his wife

started bossing him around, was

the weak one. Blood slipped off

his hands and cloak, and he did

what needed be done without

shrinking into fear. But his Lady,

drop by drop, gave in to the wildness

clouding her vision.

Madness is not defined

black outlines, intricate detail,

inviting green hands above a base

of orange earth. Madness wants

a blurring of edges, focusless sight.

Graceful and erect, these irises

model the hardy stalks and resilience

of corn. Clever landing-strips

on the stigma ensure insects only drop

one dash of pollen when carrying

life from flower to flower.

Van Gogh painted lilacs

in all their heady clutter

and no one claims they

inspired insanity.

Irises prefer to stand apart,

take years to crowd each other,

do not make ears blaze

until they must be cut off,

do not send a person into a cornfield

with one remaining vision.

I am an English Instructor at Erie Community College, outside of Buffalo, New York. My home is a very small, old town called Elma and aside from renovating my 155 year-old house, I am an avid reader and writer. My poetry has been published in Earth's Daughters and local magazines.