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  • The Medical Bag (The First Time I was told by medical diagnosis of depression)



    The medical bag opens and out comes

    Instruments; of ruddy background

    Country and city, rural and urban,

    The calf-legged instruments; reads my heart

    And softly falls to the floor, as I outdo even runners

    Your million arm runners, your relatives?

    Are they even mentioned in your will?

    That is loneliness the bag left opened for the cyanide to see,

    the crystals, the baggage, the longing

    On our walk home                 

    I forgot that you told me that you loved me. 

    In the confusion

    The outposts in India

    Rapture wares and soft cashmere scarves

    Wrapping around me like a butterfly net, wraps

    Around a cocoon of silk.  It is forgotten; it took

    Me 20 minutes to get ready & we are not on the

    Second course before I called the police.

                No shifting time; I called anything

    Not even an appetizer to cure the growth

    Of the                                            why did you have to hurt me?

    It is with the knife that skewers my bones.   



    Time Is (The First Time I said Goodbye to Someone I loved)


    In between the space of heartbeats, I hear the thunk, the thunk

    Of the Bass Player in the apartment next store.  I lay my head

    On your lap.                It cannot be over. No, the passion

    Your passion was wrapped up in a Simon & Garfunkel

    Poster  that I never gave you. 

    She did.

     It’s not

    The first time someone has given you presents.  But this overcame

    Your edges, your edginess, that someone gave you

    Something.  So Old and so within your range of tastes. 

    I never even asked her name.  I didn’t want

    To know.  I don’t even want to see you again.  Yet I call and wait

    For a response.  It is not comprehensive the look you gave me

    As I cradled my head into your lap.  It was intensive, and

    Embarrassingly abrasive.  I’m pointless because I need

    To               let go. And yet I can’t bring myself to look

    At the poster I never gave you.  I have photographs of us.

    Even now                    I can barely look at you.

    Your scar, your body, your apartment.  The space between us grows

    And becomes                       like a shadow.

    You can barely look at me.  Maybe there are times like these,

    That are meant to be shared with others.  Yet I am left

    With tepid bathwater and   the foam

    As a yet unbroken blue sea.  The blue, the formation of blue, blue skies,

    Blues Jazz Music Heart, Blue paint (you were an artist with the palette

                                Of blue on your painting), blue lamp, blue

    Ambiance, blue veins, blue cocktail, blue curtains.  You were

    Painted, like you painted yourself, blue in the Picasso.  You were blue

    All over.  And so was I, blue, with my heart in your lap.  My head just sits there. 

    Like a musical box where it cannot stop tinkling its music.

    It just sits there. 

    About The Author

    Jennifer Singleton

    Jennifer is a school librarian who tries to capture and embrace the power of loving reading, as well as poetry in her daily endeavors. Ms. Singleton holds a Master’s degree in Library Science and teaches kindergarten through fifth grade Library Science in Corsiciana, Texas. She states, “I have some nebulas ancestry of Native American [Alaska] from my grandmother; I also adopted her predilection for breast cancer. I am adopted and do not know my ancestry except that it is all over the place.” Jennifer lives with her two dogs. Ms. Singleton has been published in Red River Review, Phree Write, Foliate Oak, and Black Heart magazines.