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.

PARIS POEM

 

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.

 

LA ROSE

 

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.

 

SEPTEMBER

 

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.