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Jenna Cardinale is the author of Journals, a chapbook from Coconut. Her poems have recently appeared in Listenlight, No Tell Motel, and Conversation Poetry Quarterly. She lives in Washington Heights with K. and a dog named Maybe.
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If You See Something
The neighbor. His mistress. The skinny
salad bar thief. The customer
who always takes
a penny. The young man handing out
hundreds. Old-fashioned
fistfights. Genocide.
The wallet slid into a foreign
pocket. The foreigner.
The too-empty room. The beard.
The taxi driver on
his cell phone, gesturing.
The subway train full
of suitcases.
Do you inhale? Do you
shutter yourself? Or
say something.
----
The Perfumer Presents the Lesson Again
The awkward glory of the newness
doesn’t always fade.
That scent, if it remains,
might turn saccharine—
Ripe roses. Chocolaty.
And somehow bitter—
Old take-out. Infidelity
to the self.
But the pop of plastic
ribbon, that first dab,
always seems to be for always.
My senses, though,
can be quite acute.
It can so quickly
evaporate.
---
Among Tourists
A fanny-packed man to his daughter:
“What? You don’t want to see
more devastation, do you?
It’s hot.” “Yes, I want to see
more devastation.”
But they let the bus stop
for them at the battered botanical
garden. They’d seen a few
exes and high horizontal water
lines. All behind
fingerprinted glass.
They stay to sniff and snap
the heartiest of the local
flowers while we wait before
a drawn drawbridge until
the driver decides to detour
toward tall neon grass, concrete
porches, foundation blocks stronger than
levees. That one twisted
mailbox.
We left wanting to see
more for New Orleans.
---
Prince & Broadway
Pigeons don’t envy
planes. Candy wrapper
cranes can’t compel them
out of our way.
A white one lives on this
corner. We notice
him only because he’s different.
Let’s assume he knows
our footsteps, which we leave
behind on the pavement.
Next to the roasted nut cart, the mesh
trash can. Home still
smells like something.
----
Knowing & the East River
Geologically younger— not so
hard. I haven’t studied
enough. Sure, literature.
I can’t tell you how
a plane flies or why
each line was drawn on the map.
I know only a few
histories. I know rocks are made
for throwing.
---
Q-tip
Every shade of pink
is audacious—
You were old the whole time
I knew you—
With a certain
metallic obstinacy—
I cover your walls in
a paint called verdigris
to make the room
look lived in—
& wait for my own
atavistic crumbling—
---
In Dog Years
Maybe in Brooklyn. Maybe one
brown shoe. Maybe
come. Maybe stay
here. Maybe
a home. Maybe
medicine in hand. Maybe
the hospital. Maybe
the long ride home.
Maybe at the door.
Every day.
Maybe a song. Maybe
yes.
---
The Back
bone is the hardest—
But all this standing
up for myself
leaves me aching.
What is truer
than bone? Blood,
maybe. But it’s more
maudlin.
And the skin can’t
be trusted— The homemade quilt on
the brothel bed.
The truest is the hardest—
The answered question
never bends.
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