jj goss resides with her husband in central Massachusetts. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous publications and her short story, "Missing a Beat," was nominated for a 2001 Pushcart Prize.
WHY I WRITE:
About a year ago, while attempting to be more zen-like I started carrying
around a small notebook. I scribbled down quick snippets of conversations and observations, such as “new buttons on my old coat,” in the hopes that this would encourage me to live in the moment. It worked to a small extent, however when I used these notes to write poetry, I found that I would begin a piece in the moment but the tiny images of today would spark a bigger memory, a dream or a fantasy or two.
I love poetry that strings unexpected words together in strange ways that make sense of it all - poetry that provides enough obscurity to make it universal, but not so coded that it makes no sense to anyone except (perhaps) the poet. Good experiences, bad experiences, dreams, nature, friends, lovers and total strangers all find their way sooner or later into the poetry pot. Add a cup of water from the stream of consciousness, stir gently and simmer.
The Brink
On a chipping windowsill
her fingers tap
coded conversations with the rain
she's gone mad
drinking wine
from the leaded cup the mirror reveals
a distorted view
she ties yellow ribbons around the ginger root
charms
for a trip she's never taken
she wants to hang herself
in a closet
zipped inside a garment bag
so she won't yellow or be nibbled at
all those tiny holes
a paint chip
the size of a fingernail
a sip of wine
one touch of the lips
small things like these
have driven her
to this.
Top of the Page.
Illusion
Mom
jet black hair and sunglasses
too big for her face
tanned arms hanging out the window
of the passenger side past the line
of dark green trucks and jeeps
with flapping canvas and smiling soldiers
calling out something that sounds to this day
how pretty feels
don't be silly, they're looking at you
she's saying she's checking her lipstick
in the vanity mirror I see my face
in the adjustment quick flash
illusion of beauty
of honesty in between Mom's parted lips
and my reflection again
push the mirror away she's satisfied
and she smiles
out the window forcing me
back from my pink
corvette and dream house
back to unsightly hair
A cup bra acne and uncertainty
back to the Pepperidge Farm
frozen turnovers baking
one afternoon one for me
and tea
poured into two cups
illusion of closeness as we ate
in silence at one end
of the dining room table
that seats ten eyes staring down
into the swirled knots
where her voice went
she wipes up the spills
before they leave water marks in the wood.
Top of the Page.
The Dark
last night I ran out of white
the kind in dark bottles
and too soon I was dreaming
of the glass stem cool and smooth
as words overheard in the hallway yesterday afternoon
dreaming of wine
and a lazy slipping off
of my skin and words that slide out without stumbling
over clenched teeth
over other people's voices droning through movies
I've watched a hundred times before
dreaming of the woman in the upstairs bedroom
screaming at night until my ceiling cracks
in a strangely familiar pattern her words
creep in between my sheets in between the dreams
I have of dreaming her face reflected in my mirror
in the mirror and in the mirror again
my face kept in clear uncolored glass so I can keep an eye on
the level of emptiness
so I can tell how much is left inside
Top of the Page.
Saccharin on My Fingers
there's a dent in my fender
apology bruises my shins
I can't remember the words
in the restaurant only the eyes
don't leave the house
without two sets of keys
there's saccharin on my fingers
an alphabet on my spoon
hard to make out the words
through the steam
watch the little bird mouth
open blind
a couple of rough drafts
and a dry run
a dictionary close by just in case
rearrange the words
before I swallow
whole sentences memorized paragraphs
stick to my ribs
I can't remember the address
of the last place you never lived
phantom fishbone feeling
long after the choking
and still sometimes at night
you feed me leave a nice taste
on my tongue
it's just like sugar sometimes
I swear
I've tasted something real
Top of the Page.
Aisle Imitation
it was just an aisle imitation
I really should have told you
I kicked my legs up high mislead you
about the elasticity of my skin
my face never did recover
from the smile are the scars
very noticeable?
and I found out
black is only my color in the winter
it's sadly common this rebellion
against the gray
a line of crows on your telephone line
looked like an omen to me
but you liked the sleekness of their feathers
a flash of indigo when the light was just right
you knew it felt like velvet
even without touching
I was leatherette never claimed
to be the real thing I just stole the name
it didn't smell right but it felt just as cold
while you feigned concern for the animals
I pretended faux was fun
and we wrapped each other up in something
false convinced ourselves it was better
than something dead
and you watched the birds swoop down from
a distance
Top of the Page.
Temporary Things
I wouldn't get too close
cuz I don't know where I've been
the water's lukewarm and
the rest stop is miles away
reading Kurt Cobain's diary and unzipping my skin
so it can leave me
for someone else I won't stand in it's way
because you know how I can
go on
and on
saw your face today exactly
the same as when I saw it once
the time I captured it
and answered to the natives
a snapshot in my pocket
leaving you nothing
to barter with
I've run amuck
spewing forth the poison
red shoes clicking on the carpet
faux fur purring on my neck
arguing with the janitor
in the cafeteria over
my leftover pineapple and the
last remaining tupperware container
he should have warned me
last Friday
it would all disappear
by Monday morning
Top of the Page.
Letter to the Author: JJ Goss
at jjgoss2001@hotmail.