Jill Frischhertz is completing her third and final year in San Diego State University’s MFA program.
For her thesis, she is creating a collection of poems that speak to the south. The title of this
collection is Voices from a Fishbowl, which was inspired by her childhood in Southeast Louisiana.
For her thesis, she is creating a collection of poems that speak to the south. The title of this
collection is Voices from a Fishbowl, which was inspired by her childhood in Southeast Louisiana.
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All content contained within this site is protected by copyright laws.
Unauthorized use of graphics or literary material is strictly prohibited.
Three Weeks Later
Too dark, too damp
for the 12 sleeping pigeons
in the backyard’s crooked oak.
In a cotton robe and naked foot-presses,
I cover the soil trail
to my garden.
Only three green leaves today,
another has fallen softly.
the rose’s neck
bows, deeper.
I repeat yesterday’s movements:
water, a banana peel to feed roots.
Aphids congregate
along the spine
You left suddenly, falling
between lemon tree and rosemary.
I cook collard greens in garlic
to smell you.
I stall until the final day of autumn.
Shaking free worms
tangled in roots,
I gently release
the antique bush.
It rests on top of compost
While you snore loudly,
oblivious of winter’s fingers,
in St. Vincent Cemetery.
for the 12 sleeping pigeons
in the backyard’s crooked oak.
In a cotton robe and naked foot-presses,
I cover the soil trail
to my garden.
Only three green leaves today,
another has fallen softly.
the rose’s neck
bows, deeper.
I repeat yesterday’s movements:
water, a banana peel to feed roots.
Aphids congregate
along the spine
You left suddenly, falling
between lemon tree and rosemary.
I cook collard greens in garlic
to smell you.
I stall until the final day of autumn.
Shaking free worms
tangled in roots,
I gently release
the antique bush.
It rests on top of compost
While you snore loudly,
oblivious of winter’s fingers,
in St. Vincent Cemetery.
| The Honey Land Review Fall 2009 Volume 2, Issue 1 |
| Graduate Student Spotlight Jill Frischhertz |
closer to heaven and complains
that grandfather’s shadow sleeps on her,
always hiding the cup of midnight water.
she insists, with bee stings,
God will take her.
I photograph her scribbled orders
to the mortician. The last demand:
the crepe of her underarms
ironed smooth.
Her mouth rarely moves:
sometimes a moon,
mostly a flat road.
I know the bees are two days closer
when she consoles her collar bone
with soft circles while sipping celery
and lemon vodka.
Mesmerized by this image on the back porch,
I remain standing beside her Alba rose.
that grandfather’s shadow sleeps on her,
always hiding the cup of midnight water.
she insists, with bee stings,
God will take her.
I photograph her scribbled orders
to the mortician. The last demand:
the crepe of her underarms
ironed smooth.
Her mouth rarely moves:
sometimes a moon,
mostly a flat road.
I know the bees are two days closer
when she consoles her collar bone
with soft circles while sipping celery
and lemon vodka.
Mesmerized by this image on the back porch,
I remain standing beside her Alba rose.
She Says Widowhood is a Hotel Room