by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins
I dream you die again, die over and over, die
quickly and slowly, die upside down, die in reverse,
with the car in the wrong gear, or the water frozen
straight through.
I dream you arrange little knickknacks
and swallow them one by one: the gorilla with the half-
peeled banana, the porcelain kitten with its head tilted
in confusion.
Hidden inside of you is the curated garden
of small answers. Still each time you subtract
yourself from me. Each time you remain
indecipherable.
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins lives and writes in Minneapolis. She is the author of the chapbooks OVER THE MOON and OH NO EVERYTHING (Pockets Press 2017 & 2015). Look for her work in AGNI, Beloit Poetry Journal, PANK, Drunken Boat, Linebreak, and elsewhere.
A-Minor 
First rate. My kind of poetry.