by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins
OTTAWA COUNTY FAIR
With thin legs we raise our young
pockets from picnic table tops, traipse
down to the river under the cover
of scant branches.
I worry about the length of my jean shorts,
kick a stick with my bare
toe, adjust my sandal, have heard rumors
of what happens down on this bed
of rocks. I look back & can see the tip
top of the ferris wheel, teen couples tilting
forward & backward, hovering over
everything. I can’t see their faces. I wonder
if they are holding their breath;
Mercy, mercy. I know you are angry.
But God, my legs are dismayed.
The bones know nothing of strength;
they root themselves deeply in fear.
How long must I be planted here.
Put me into the right hands; the ones
that love me. Should I be dead,
you’d never hear me speak again.
I should not say your name.
I can barely groan it now.
What comes from fear is water.
Even my bones weep. Weak bones,
and tired eyes to suffer the world.
Go. He will come for me. He will
come for me. He will come
for me. He will come for me.
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins lives and writes in Minnesota. She is the author of the chapbook Ether/Ore. Look for her work in Beloit Poetry Journal, Potomac Review, PANK, elimae, RHINO, and elsewhere.