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Jennifer H. Fortin

 

 

from We Lack in Equipment & Control

 

Plexiglass has supplanted the ruining fence around the flame. It was a question of focus. There was no choice in the hosting, but there was a choice to love. See how it gets restored, discordant stewards, white-gloved, escorting us to our cabins. "Poor judgment," not misconduct, claims the aide. Where before I'd call back each nut & bolt from our time apart, gather & give them to you in an unsealed envelope, now there are impressions I hurl onto the summit, out of view until the future brakes or probably until always. As a child I hated eggplant for how it was put together (not for the thing itself), picked them from the garden & hurled those bad boys on top of the shed. As though they'd never be discovered when the roof needed repair. As though they'd borne the brunt in their bed & now would live a refined existence off the grid. As though the jockeys circling my brother's car picked up through the cracked windows snippets & these gestated. The weight-limited riders, professionally guiding some movement, they finagled happiness via eavesdropped collage & imparted it by way of a special portal alerting me to unbruised command. If that's not decadence then what is. It's a question of focus. The origin of "brunt" is perhaps the Middle English sexual assault, akin to heat, akin to itch.

 

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Jennifer H. Fortin responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying her for her poems.