Silence

 

Maybe I should move to New Orleans-
get swept away in the erratic
inconsistency of fevered jazz
music on the street-
make reckless love in the
hazy summer heat with a man who
keeps a talisman above his bed
and wake up to him playing a slow
lazy song on the harmonica, perched
in the open window to the fire escape
with a cup of black coffee by his
bare feet and sweat already trickling down his neck-
maybe I just need a new town-
a new hand to hold-
converse with new faces
I’ll never see again on Bourbon Street-
instead of seeing your friends everywhere I turn-
maybe I need to drink gin straight from the bottle-
instead of apple-flavored beer-
gather and cheer at the Krewe du Vieux-
and never step foot in a movie theater again-
eat beignets until they replace
the times we got sushi down by the shore-
maybe I need to run away from
bittersweet memories of you and me-
replace all the things
that once were for all the things
that could be-

“New Orleans”-4-28-14-jessicagadziala

New Orleans

 

Maybe I should move to New Orleans-
get swept away in the erratic
inconsistency of fevered jazz
music on the street-
make reckless love in the
hazy summer heat with a man who
keeps a talisman above his bed
and wake up to him playing a slow
lazy song on the harmonica, perched
in the open window to the fire escape
with a cup of black coffee by his
bare feet and sweat already trickling down his neck-
maybe I just need a new town-
a new hand to hold-
converse with new faces
I’ll never see again on Bourbon Street-
instead of seeing your friends everywhere I turn-
maybe I need to drink gin straight from the bottle-
instead of apple-flavored beer-
gather and cheer at the Krewe du Vieux-
and never step foot in a movie theater again-
eat beignets until they replace
the times we got sushi down by the shore-
maybe I need to run away from
bittersweet memories of you and me-
replace all the things
that once were for all the things
that could be-

“New Orleans”-4-28-14-jessicagadziala

My Everest

I would tell him I wrote enough words

to assemble and stack into a mountain –

that he is why I know how to climb –

that he has always been the mixed metaphor

my foot catches on and trips me up –

he is the fall

he is the bruised arms and skinned knees –

I would tell him he’s the words

“get back up” and “try again”-

He’s the sky I’m always trying to reach

and the stacks of worthless poems on paper in my way –

He is my Kilimanjaro, my Everest-

he is the cold, the hunger,

the exhaustion –

he is the probable failure

but the will to go on.

 

“My Everest” – 4-4-14- jessicagadziala