THE CRITIC WRITES POEMS: JESSICA GONZALEZ

 3 POEMS by Jessica Gonzalez

Window

Swallowing the shock of Wednesday, 

I stand on a train. My forehead is crinkled until

I scribble fuck, Jess, not even honest in a journal. My

silence all around me: leather-smell and skin-hush.

The lean and pull into morning and someone’s satin cheeks.

The conductor, rude one with the why I oughta voice. And the

wondering where you are. Not here to tell me I look like a painting,

naked before your dragging hair. Not smoking by the window,

ashing on to the roof. We’re not discussing dubstep or

conscious rap nor are we surveying our legs, the striking

difference. You’re not disappointing me with track marks

or a text message. Holding the pole, I’m far from the

forest of your chest, or a poem (though I get off at Brighton and

try to imagine you as a child). I’m not in your parents’

basement, asleep on a tigur fur. We’re not watching

stand-up, comatose in t-shirts. You’re not negotiating dust

or becoming a mirage. I’m not in schoolgirl

socks begging you to come around.

Help

“I have loved my pure Muse but I have not

respected her; I have been unfaithful to her

and often took her to places that were not fit

for her to go.”

                        -Anton Chekhov, Letters

I have traded love for aesthetic.

and you, bitcoins for heroin.

Bodies in flower. Loveless dust.

Upset skin begging for a hint

and a hand on the thigh, old story.

Such is the violence of mornings.

We get up, drive to separate

meetings. Our portraits rattle,

find a muse. Or find nothing.

Let out your big blue arms.

There is some grace in neglect,

our found place.

Heaven

When you fell did it hurt,

oh, angel-in-disgust?

Angel we’ve heard on high —

in thigh-highs,

drooling angel. 

Oh, lo-fi angel with

shoe-gazing halo.

Commuter angel, non-churchgoing

angel.

St. Aquinas-reading angel.

Indoctrinated angel.

P&L angel.

A textbook angel.

American-enough angel.

Codependent angel.

Angel in American Apparel.

Angel eating egg-rolls,

on couch, waiting.

Sun-avoidant angel,

self-taught angel.

Angel-hairs black, parted.

Angel in love.

Draining box wine,

fetishized angel.

Angel interrupted,

unmoving,

unanswering.

Oh, angel, come with me —

you who landed with grace.

*****

Jessica A. Gonzalez is an editorial assistant and freelance writer and translator based in New Jersey and New York. She recently graduated from Rutgers University with a BA in English and also writes poetry.