Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts


by Kristen Jackson


“Every angel is terrible” – Rilke


The waves come at once, one lifts
one drowns. A spinning whirlpool below the feet,
arms wrenched backwards, awaiting the star in the chest.

What power escapes?

I will always be alone in your absence.
What to make of this fitting into place,
inability to write until
all the clothes are pressed and hung, all the dishes arranged.

Tunneled to the bone, I’ve adopted a half-way
of being in the world.
Safe if I am walking down the street, but if one speaks
I might fall over.

Some being knows? What you need? I think that is yourself.