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J.V. Foerster

June 2009

Jane’s Garden


Jane’s Garden

In the trailer park back by the fence
tall wild beans slither up out of the sand
Brussel Sprouts hard fists
the size of baseballs grow
Lemon Thyme, Sweet Basil
heavy as a jungle.

In the thin morning light
before the rattlesnakes could move
she’d be conjuring her magic green.

Once someone asked her why she lived
alone in the desert, she looked down 
passing her foot back and forth in the sand.
“Things have changed”
she said “back when I was young
in Wyoming they shaved
the heads of pretty women
because they wouldn’t sleep with men. 
Drove them to the state line
dropping them there in the dirt.
Too many to save there, I just
got tired.”

I could see her in her pick-up
truck scooping the women up
like sweet evening primroses
uncurling them, replanting them
away into the long dark night
in the warm firelight, into the
soil of a riverbank, or into the sand
that might shift their life.
Showing them the wide open places that
seemed like you could hide away 
forever and be just whomever you would be.


And All These Pretty Pretty Truths

It is the unspoken we do not like.
That our belly sags over our lap
a little.
That there is a bald spot sweet and true
at the top of our head or
that celebration of psoriasis
on our thigh.

In the magazines all the girls and boys
wear sarongs and their skin is like
smooth milk, their feet of velvet
nary a crack, and tender lips delicious pouts.
Torsos of entwined muscle climbing
like young green vines.

We watch them in movies
long stretched out bodies with pink nipples
straight arches to their backs
buttocks to pop a dime off.

So it is easy for we, all the real people
to hide from the terror of the unspoken.
The tangy smell between your legs.
The morning taste of shit in your mouth.
The cooked meat smell of sweat
that sheaths you to cold in the burn
of heat.
The grunt that squeaks out between your lips as
you pound up to orgasm.

And all these pretty pretty truths.

Your Steady Partner

I rub my hands down your thighs
and breathe in your sweet mystery
claiming this moment as mine.
Climbing it wildly a vine into your heat.

I take from you like no other
this I know and Jesus could not
taste nor your plain simple lover 
the dark tangy music that’s on my tongue.

Oh yes she cooks dinner her apron tight
and tidy, hair up in a bow. The essence
of cotton candy and play dough
Oh she was an easy one for your mold.

You and I our desires keep good company
each detail we pamper and seduce
small phantoms that we must
love as our bodies love.

On the radar in the pulsing air
she is the tiny black spot that says
home and going back you will plan
time to sail away from her again.

I am that foreign place, that strange laughter
in the other room. The tiny mumbling voice you swear
you can hear talking far off in the night
when you try to sleep, but ache for clear words.

I do not wear a watch and that was true for you once
I read dictionaries and thrill to the thesaurus
We have familiar things Vivaldi, Bartlett’s quotations
and all other simple elements of disorder.

She tucks you in, baths each dish like a soiled child,
tears off the box tops for silverware
and opens her plump thighs warm and milky to you
when you have that sharp need to bed me.

And I am, my darling oh so far away from where you are,
so far and wide open and clever, oh so clever to be a
deliciously faint indiscretion so free.


J.V. Foerster was born in Port Washington, Wisconsin. She has been published in Kimera, Niederngasse, Southern Ocean Review, Horsethiefs Journal, Eclectica, Agnieszka’s Dowry, VOiCE, Red River Review, Midnight Mind , Premiere Generation Ink , to name a few. She has also won three honorable mentions from the Oregon State Poetry Association. J.V. is a Grants and Projects Coordinator for The Children’s Place a Child Advocacy Center and currently lives in Alaska.



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