Poems by Jacqueline Jules

 

Annie Anxious

Annie Anxious is yanking my arm.
“Come,” she coaxes, “to the basement.”

“I’ll remind you how to bite your nails, pace the floors.”

She winks. “We can take turns, grinding our teeth.”

“No thanks,” I whisper, pulling away.

She clings and hisses. “Where are you going?
We’ve been inseparable all these years.”

“True.” I fold my legs in lotus pose, focus
on the air passing through my nostrils.

“Really?” she scoffs. “Really?
You want to live without me?”

“Yes.” I close my eyes and hum. “Yes.”

 

Winter Blend

In early June, when chicks chirped
from wispy cradles
tucked beneath my deck,
I hung a cylinder of seed
from a pole in my backyard.

June, July, August, September
feathered fluffs of color
with dainty three-pronged feet
chose my generous table,
often waiting in line to take a seat.
I watched from my window,
amused by the bicker and bustle.

Then October came, and the tube 
swung in a brisker wind, untouched.

Puzzled, I consulted the bird store,
was advised to buy black-oil sunflower,
scatter tempting bits on the ground.

A winter blend for those brave enough
to chirp in the snow.

Stationed again by the window
I watch the chickadee and cardinal,
blue jay and junco stop by to nourish me.