2 poems by Jen Rouse
When the Rowing Ended at God
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat inside of me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it. –Anne Sexton, “Rowing”
In the end, we sat at the worn farm
house table, her manuscript finished.
She’d made her way to an island. Where her
salt-encrusted fingers had rowed
her to some peace. Her sunburned
freckled cheeks luminous
and forgiven. Maybe she didn’t
really deserve it, maybe it didn’t
matter anymore. The screen door
rocked in a warm wind. She clacked
the final notes on her typewriter keys.
She had long forgotten I was watching,
and so I sat on the beach, sipping tequila.
I mean. I needed to know if the rowing
had been worth it. I’m simply not that work-
brittle. Lessons learned and all that.
We had long been moving between
these worlds. Her death, my life,
the garage and the gas, the line by line,
the therapists and dramatic moments
of collapse. After a while, it was impossible
to separate the rats from the stars,
the id from the ego from the starving need,
for father, from mother. We ate every amen.
Truthfully, I’m not sure I saw anything,
as she fell from the dilapidated boat
and onto the sand. But her journey had
taken so long, and, honestly, no one,
though she had demanded attention,
had bothered to listen. And, so, for one last
time I took her hand. And led her to
an altar of contrition. Dear, Anne,
let me put this holy water to your lips.
Dear Anne, please believe me when I say
that when She held that stunning rat
in her soft, soft hands, I believe
you were delivered.
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat inside of me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it. –Anne Sexton, “Rowing”
In the end, we sat at the worn farm
house table, her manuscript finished.
She’d made her way to an island. Where her
salt-encrusted fingers had rowed
her to some peace. Her sunburned
freckled cheeks luminous
and forgiven. Maybe she didn’t
really deserve it, maybe it didn’t
matter anymore. The screen door
rocked in a warm wind. She clacked
the final notes on her typewriter keys.
She had long forgotten I was watching,
and so I sat on the beach, sipping tequila.
I mean. I needed to know if the rowing
had been worth it. I’m simply not that work-
brittle. Lessons learned and all that.
We had long been moving between
these worlds. Her death, my life,
the garage and the gas, the line by line,
the therapists and dramatic moments
of collapse. After a while, it was impossible
to separate the rats from the stars,
the id from the ego from the starving need,
for father, from mother. We ate every amen.
Truthfully, I’m not sure I saw anything,
as she fell from the dilapidated boat
and onto the sand. But her journey had
taken so long, and, honestly, no one,
though she had demanded attention,
had bothered to listen. And, so, for one last
time I took her hand. And led her to
an altar of contrition. Dear, Anne,
let me put this holy water to your lips.
Dear Anne, please believe me when I say
that when She held that stunning rat
in her soft, soft hands, I believe
you were delivered.
If You Give Anne Sexton a Cookie
If you give Anne Sexton
a cookie, she will lick it
and hand it back to you
and ask for gin. If you give
Anne Sexton some gin,
she will curl her lip and
pout for a pretty cup
with ice and tonic. If
you give Anne Sexton her gin
neat and in a jelly jar,
she will write you a poem.
It is your favorite poem, with
a beautiful line about the door
of a lover's being the same
door as yours. If you remind
Anne Sexton that she is a poet,
she will swallow a bottle
of pills and some window
cleaner. When you tell her
she had to have her stomach
pumped, she will ask about the good-
looking doctor. She will make you
laugh in the middle of all that tragedy.
She will crook her finger to
bring you closer. She will run
that finger down the slope
of your lip. She will smile and whisper
with her head against your breast,
"I'm starving, Darling. Bring
me a cookie."
a cookie, she will lick it
and hand it back to you
and ask for gin. If you give
Anne Sexton some gin,
she will curl her lip and
pout for a pretty cup
with ice and tonic. If
you give Anne Sexton her gin
neat and in a jelly jar,
she will write you a poem.
It is your favorite poem, with
a beautiful line about the door
of a lover's being the same
door as yours. If you remind
Anne Sexton that she is a poet,
she will swallow a bottle
of pills and some window
cleaner. When you tell her
she had to have her stomach
pumped, she will ask about the good-
looking doctor. She will make you
laugh in the middle of all that tragedy.
She will crook her finger to
bring you closer. She will run
that finger down the slope
of your lip. She will smile and whisper
with her head against your breast,
"I'm starving, Darling. Bring
me a cookie."
Jen Rouse’s poems have appeared in Poetry, Poet Lore, Pretty Owl, The Tishman Review, Inflectionist Review, Midwestern Gothic, Sinister Wisdom, the Plath Poetry Project, and elsewhere. She’s the 2017 winner of Gulf Stream’s summer poetry contest. Rouse’s chapbook, Acid and Tender, was published in 2016 by Headmistress Press.
Anna Martin is a digital/traditional artist, writer and photographer based out of Saint Augustine, Florida. She is an avid explorer and much of her artwork is inspired by her travels and life experiences, and she strives to capture emotions and inspire others with her work. Her work has been previously exhibited in various galleries and museums, such as the Rosenberg Gallery and the Baltimore Museum of Art, and has also been published in various art magazines such as Grub Street and Plenilune Magazine. Anna is a freelance artist, and is always looking for new work and collaborative projects. Anna also frequently works under the pseudonym Vacantia, and more of her art can be found at her online gallery: http://www.vacantia.org.