Heather Jessen

Not Ready for the Coda

Pluck the star, the heart, the reindeer,

unhook the horse, the bells and baubles,

wind up the skeins of twinkling bright,

that merry talkback to the stark, and bubble

wrap, again, the angel,

oh!, fierce sentinel.

Fill the boxes, touch the labels printed

neatly by the dead. Stack and store. Beneath

our feet, needles snap and brittle crunch

to the curb, and on our hands—sap,

a gift like frankincense.

Kingly, ascend

to drowse and deep, oblivion: mechanics

of sprawl and sleep. All body heat amidst

pink flannel sheets. Wee hours, one

awakens, then

the other, chest pain

radiating down the shoulder. Water,

pills of cannot sleep. Phone and nurse

and proper scramble: socks and shirt

and girding loins. Outside, brash

and swirling

lights, hiss of diesel, fleet

of boots, business

voices clomp inside

amplified by know-how hands. Beloved

carapace and shooting star arrayed

across a blank of stretcher, out the door,

siren song to lonely follow. No choice

but wait. Please, nothing else put away.

Heather Jessen has poems appearing or forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, Southern Humanities Review, Pangyrus, and elsewhere. A former resident of Australia, she lives in Connecticut.

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