Abriana Jetté

 
Fury

I was being killed. Murderous mothers
flapped their wings. To feel how they suffer

            I sang along. Half sleep. A precarious situation,
            yet I accepted their invitation for lamentations.

Warbled on. Lingered. Disappeared. My spear
my dimmed conscience. My vision, Lear

            like, a fool for casual inaccuracy,
            thinking of daughters and mad literality.

We swung up against sinning more sinned
than sin; meaning: leave no trace of the feminine.

            When it was over, I licked my fingers. Figured
            I’d devour whatever notes of bitter-

ness remained. Lustful, loveless, shit out of luck,
three dream sisters whispered: destruct, destruct.  
   

Persephone, Refrain

It’s not as easy as just deciding to leave
and leaving. Consider the people involved
who love the life they live. Including me.
Whatever existed before dissolves
when we’re together. Including me.

I’d bend over backwards and beg on my
knees if I thought it might do something
to change his mind. Instead I pay the price,
play the fool. Casually slip off my ring.
Time is my punishment, I pay its price

whenever oxygen escapes the leaves.
I could have learned to love the life we lived.
Time and time again they let me leave.
What’s going to happen when I no longer exist?
Eventually, everything dissolves. Including me.
    

Abriana Jetté is an editor and educator, with research interests in creative writing studies, alternative pedagogies, and poetics. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Harpur Palate, The Moth, Poetry New Zealand, and The Seneca Review.