Amanda Bubble Has Moments of Sublimity and Moments of Abjection

by Jennifer Bullis

 

Tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 1561.
I’m smiling right out of my face;

whether it’s the sunset or the hummingbirds,
I can’t be sure. I’m exhausted by springtime

and its pattern of losses. A curious thing, that grief
is insufficient to purge pain. But I won’t let that stop me

from telling you the truth about these yellow blossoms
hurling their tiny lemons at my nose.

The Oregon Grape, I insist, was named by an explorer
who did his best not to judge a plant strictly by its fruit.

Except you already know that. When you mash the purple berries
of the Oregon Grape, you get a pulp so sour

it’ll curdle your botany. That’s no way to close the body’s last door,
as though nudging it shut with the trailed toe of a boot.

Meanwhile, sailboats spread a slow glaze onto the bay.
The continent unfolds under a steady hoof.

The sun brightens near the horizon, sort of like morning.
Sort of like this wasn’t happening at all.

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JENNIFER BULLIS is author of the chapbook Impossible Lessons (MoonPath Press). Originally from Reno, she earned a Ph.D. in English from the University of California-Davis and taught community-college composition and literature in Bellingham for 14 years. Her poems and essays appear in Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Water~Stone Review, Terrain, Tahoma, and Nasty Women Poets. She is recipient of an Honorable Mention for a lyric essay in the 2017 Gulf Coast Prize for Nonfiction, and her manuscript of persona poems, Wild-Caught Gods, is a finalist for the Moon City Poetry Award.