All Grown Up

Some days I’m polished.

Perfectly done up. 

others 

i’m in bed

all day long

without a word

Yesterday, I had a salad. 

today

six beers

and a 

rum shot

Some nights, I bathe.

I say goodnight. 

some

i cry

and pray it’s my last

can’t even see a doctor

they wouldn’t care

I’m uninsured

and no longer a fetus

At Long Last

You’ve given me jewels

emeralds, sapphires 

and rubies, too

i’m leaving you anyway

so you gave me bills

hundreds of thousands

enough for ten sprees

i turn away

you severed your hand 

and offered it to me

with the other 

i don’t accept

you rip out your heart

blood drips off

of dangling arteries

i rebuff

you lie down with me

i burrow my head 

into your neck

at long last

Another State

I passed my exit

with the windows down,

driving at a gripping speed.

My hair tossed in every direction,

as the sound of flapping wind

drowned out the sixth listen

of Maggot Brain.

My eyes leaked from the drag,

and from your absence. 

Hopelessly driving forward

against the feeling of reversing.

The windows vibrated,

nearly shattering,

as my whole world did,

when you left me.

I hit another state,

just like my mind,

on a highway I’ve never traveled. 

But no distance would matter,

no place would make a difference.

Already lost,

where no one cares,

without a soul

to guide me home.

Presence

I took it easy on myself today.

Instead of regretting, I imagined-

You didn’t go to Texas,

where Covid was rampant that November,

where freedom felt more important

than health and protection.

We stayed in for Thanksgiving

and exchanged thankfulness.

I cooked your favorite stuffing.

We played Boggle so competitively,

and you won every time

You weren’t states away in a hospital,

rapidly deteriorating 

from an ailment not yet understood,

with an iPad between us.

You were here, in my bed,

while I laid on the couch,

yelling at you to turn the TV down

as sitcom laughter traveled through the walls

–

a sound that’s become music to my ears.

The courier never arrived

to hand me a box,

carefully sealed and marked 

“remains” in bold red letters 

No-

Instead I open the door,

And you’re standing there,

Hand in hand

With the granddaughter 

who arrived just in time 

to meet you.

The Trash Heap Motel

Second in line

at the Trash Heap Motel

this guy ahead

who’s pretty green

reserved the compost room

think banana and orange peels

crab and shrimp shells

tea leaves and coffee grinds

the hairy guy

behind the desk

says it’s booked out

so this guy ahead

pounds on the desk

shouting demands

“there’s nothing I can do”

-hairy guy says

so this guy ahead

takes the adjacent room instead

and he stomps away

pissed off

now I’m up

I ask for the room 

next to that 

guy ahead

i sit alone

in the rag room

tabloids everywhere

never-ending nonsense

with my ear pressed

to the door

finally

a knock

coming from

the guy ahead

who settled for 

the linen room

old, lint-covered blankets

stained pillows

floor to ceiling

the knocking stops

a door swings

muffled talk

i stare down 

the peephole

pillow attack

man down

the guy ahead 

cozies up

in the compost room

I leave my room

to see the scene

and grab another paper

from the hairy guy

a pillow

still on the face

of the man

whom I tiptoe over

the smell of glue

on a craft gun

as I pass the room

with discarded works

from art classes

where a lady

in sequined pajamas

circles around

polishing failures

creating a classroom

she can admire

anything goes

and there’s something

for everyone

at the Trash Heap Motel

Jenna Restel is a New Jersey based writer. You may find her first published poetry in Issue 11 of the Indiana based literary magazine Keeping the Flame Alive. She also has poetry in upcoming issues of The Khaotic Good, The Haiku Shack, and ‘Walt’s Corner’ in the Long Islander. Jenna is married to her husband, Kane, and they are raising three daughters and two purrfect cats.