Jane Feinsod
TWO POEMS

Apology 

And what of the child
killed in a bathroom.
And what of the others.

Sorting the bookshelf
and bleaching the tub.
I worry I’m tumored.

I mean that. In socks
watching dog walkers.

And what of the dead
am I to do. I dread
most things. Holidays
and poverty.

My mother comes
to mind. I’m big
enough for that.

And what of the gone
not given shelter
in ceramics
in suburban closets.

Grief is informative.
Maybe so. What
consolation could
this be. So it is
thundering after all.

Call me voyeur.
Call me cloistered.
If the habit fits.

Make midnight
coffee. Stay up
to witness and
what of it. And
what of it now.

New Career in Flowers

Dried out of words and dulled by the work.
I’m thinking about a new career in flowers.
There’s a future in it, if you squint. You’ll see it
in an orchid. You’ll see it in purple going yellow.

I could go on, keep teaching Aristotle to children. Or
I could bend eucalyptus to my liking, drip the leaves
over newspaper, string hydrangea stems on chicken wire.
Arrange bouquets of blue hyacinth, larkspur, clematis.

I’ve been brutish, but I can change, like anything. Like
the meaning of anthology, once gathered flowers.
I’ve been harsh, but I can dulcet. I’ll deliver with care.
Make good with fragile and quiet things.

I’ll point out pistils on lilies to my loyal customers.
I’ll scold couples in want of wedding bouquet
preservation.  You can’t put your roses in resin
and expect them to live.

Jane Feinsod is a poet and educator living and working in Philadelphia. She received her MFA from UMass Amherst, where she was named a Rose Fellow. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Redivider, Phoebe, The Arkansas International, and elsewhere.

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