JILLIAN SMITH - POEMS

Jillian Smith is a writer and teacher living in Marietta, GA. She is currently pursuing her PhD in Poetry at Georgia State University. Originally from outside Philadelphia, Jill cherishes her slight "Philly" accent and loves embracing all the Philadelphia stereotypes she pretty much ignored while growing up, although she can't quite muster up the grit of their sports fans. She is a devoted teacher, a quirky writer, a loving and loved wife, a certifiable cat lady, an occasional artist, an aspiring chef, an exercise fanatic, a 90s rock and 2000s emo music lover, and a soon-to-be first-time mom. ​

The Mystery ​

In science class, my mother stole an eye,
a sheep’s eye, when her teacher looked away. 
The whole walk home she felt the greased orb weigh
inside her cupped palms like a stolen sigh.
At home she poked the eye to see it cry,
but nothing left its sac of jellied gray,
a depthless pool that looked and looked away, 
a death that gleamed some sliver of alive. 
When dinnertime came round, she heard the shriek
of Nonna at the fridge, her voice irate:
a napkin soaked in juice held in its folds
the former eye, a shriveled whitish bead.
She scrubbed the shelf until it showed her face
and Nonna’s eyes, those dark, unseeing clouds. 

Myth of the Present ​

Gardenias blow stars into our mouths.
I paint a picture of the past, 
sky-thin, one cloud knocks,
knocks from its single pane. 


I paint a picture of the past.
I am the blanket that wraps our cat, 
knocks from its single pane,
its blue edges keeping something in.


I am the blanket that wraps our cat,
like the darkness that knits itself,
its blue edges keeping something in.
My love grazes distances,


like the darkness that knits itself
while autumn paints our bones.
My love grazes distances. 
I say the wrong thing again,


while autumn squeezes our bones.
Marrow of emptiness, wanting something in return.
I say the wrong thing again,
but rain is coming, its broken


marrow of emptiness, wanting something in return. 
We clasp the future’s depthless hand,
but rain is coming, its broken
faces appear in the blank light.


We clasp the future’s depthless hand,
my chest stuffed to bursting.
Faces appear in the blank light,
tiny droplets unstirring my heart. 


My chest stuffed to bursting,
sky-thin, one cloud knocks,
tiny droplets unstirring my heart. 




Gardenias blow stars into our mouths. 

​

​On a Sunday

We vacuumed this morning: stamped around the house, dragging the heavy body of the machine, you with the lighter Dyson, getting the steps. Tortilla chips crinkle and snap on the rug, a rug you began to dislike just after we purchased it. Our next grill will be gas, you say. Though we just got the charcoal. Black coals turn white in the chimney starter, spilling out in a bundle of heat. Like our lives, spilled out the back end of some funnel, a hot, dark emptying. Each time we have people over—rarer now—my body throttles, wanting to steady the curve of hours, to lock the pace of here, now. Your feet kick under the heavy blanket—the one that itches my skin—and I write to slow time: the way a heartbeat spreads out, illuminating each minute, how it reverberates against the muggy press of fabric--how the mind bleeds, asking everything of color. Seconds flow over me conspicuously, as if guilty for borrowing life to make memory--memory, that broken tail, where joys are stowed like pennies in a jar, the currency of former days.

Lullaby ​

Dry your eyes, dear sister, please.
Nothing happens but in dreams.
Monsters, goblins, wicked things


Creeping up like hungry vines,
Just a product of the mind.
Take this forest, ill-defined,


Darkness stealing day’s detail.
Everything is yet to scale.
Soon the moon will find our trail


Dotted white with scraps of bread.
Home will welcome us instead,
Sunlight shred these clouds of dread. 


Lay your head upon me, now. 
Think of something sweet, a house
Built of cake, a brimming mouth. 

​

 Portrait of My Mother as Her Wedding Gown

Its sheer sleeves stuffed with paper keep their shape,
fan out in welcome of what once filled them. 
Although displaying subtle signs of age--
gray beads swivel the skirt, tarnished silver— 
there is a story hiding in the lace,
its fine lines proving handiwork, rigor. 


A streak of pale blue floats across the waist,
bearing tradition, its bow a blithe flicker
above the satin panel that cascades
down in a train, dragging its long shimmer
like years gone by. Around the neck, a trail
of milky pearls: their tiny eggs trickle


into a teardrop shape, clasp in embrace
across the heart. We feared it might wither
inside its box; instead, the dress’s grace
grows manifold. The rare, homemade riddle
of its design a glimpse of how it takes
a piece of everything it loves, chisels


them to a whole, then gives: leftover lace
saved for repairs, a strip of blue ribbon 
were sewn into my bridal purse. In haste
that day I left it in the church; stricken
in noticing the lack, I found her face,
a buoy in the sea, purse in her fingers. ​

***

​apricot light
over the horizon 
dark comes soon