7.06 / June 2012


Make this one about a girl who wastes away. You can tell us
about her growing up, flipping stones out into the driveway
                                                                      with her piano fingers,

but make sure you tell about the wasting; the self-loathing
                                                       with the quiet vigilance of a mailman.

Make her arms as thin as string, her waist turning in to kiss itself.
When the girl can hardly stand now, push her out to the middle of the lake
in a boat, under the wispy arms of the old moon holding

                                                            the absence,
                                             the magnificence of the new moon

Brett Elizabeth Jenkins teaches in St. Paul. She is the author of the chapbook OH NO EVERYTHING (Pockets Press 2015). Look for her work in Beloit Poetry Journal, Paper Darts, Revolver, Linebreak, Painted Bride Quarterly, Drunken Boat, and elsewhere.
7.06 / June 2012