Arya F. Jenkins
Arya F. Jenkins is a poet and writer whose work has been published in numerous journals and zines such as Agave Magazine, Blue Heron Review, Cider Press Review, Dying Dahlia Review, The Feminist Wire, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, IO Literary Journal, Otis Nebula, Rag-Queen Periodical, The Ekphrastic Review and Voice of Eve. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks and a collection of short stories, Blue Songs in an Open Key (Fomite Press, 2018). Her poetry chapbook, LOVE & POISON, was published by Prolific Press in November 2019.
Trying to let go the oppressive shroud of anger I felt
About being loved by someone I did not love in turn
I veritably threw myself into the streets of the city
A wanton whore, my senses and sometimes camera
Capturing all I could as if by swallowing the city of monuments
Unconquerable as an eternal palace, its baroque art
Never to be mine, refusing the conscriptions of time
I felt even then I could shape something still out of my other life and its Residual longing and let loose finally in search
Not of otherness or union with anyone
But only of returning.
The rose he walked miles to find
Lay like a whip on the table for two in our small Parisian studio
Where he sat arms crossed eyes fixed on the outdoors through the
Open flower-potted window
Where sunshine flirted with his frail promises in the alleyway
Still a wanton woman the morning after
I blew dry my long hair not far from his shoulder
Letting the dryer’s hot air blow across the table
Quivering the solitary rose
Forcing it to skip elsewhere.
Do I need to remind you about the sunlight of Paris in September?
Walking in the 1st Arrondisement along the right bank of the Seine
I selected postcards randomly so distracted was I by the bereted strangers going by I could not pretend to really register the slim presents bought that filled my purse
Here and there I paused to watch painters set up on the grass as if I might suddenly see my very destiny unfolding on their canvases, my breath held all the time because I was here, back where I had always been since the first moment I ever dared to write, feeling like a writer wanting to intrude myself into the history not of what I had experienced but what I desired. Even shadows that day supported the dance of history and art all around, and music escaping cement crevices stained the frames of easels, fluttering the pages of open books everywhere, ringing the bells of trees watching as my heart went by.