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I Grow Tired Of Drowning, For I Am Not A Witch

by helen jenks


I have written so many things,

changed the speaker of my poems


like a question or a habit, considering,

to some degree, how the “I” is me, or not me,


or if it can be both, in the fashion that

all things are other things and I am still myself.


Though when I wrote of birds, or of trees, or of

a dream I had where at the moment of violence

(the most crucial moment of myth)


I too became a flower, god-touched, a constellation

thrown skyward, a crow ink-stained with black and


aching for blame, there was nothing else, no other:

no poem, no sound, no change, just dark water,


and dust over everything. A drowning, perhaps,

or a becoming. Though if it was, truly, a drowning,


I wonder where this voice has come from––

I love you, I love you, I love you, it says,


and I think that it too, perhaps, is mine.

 

before poetry, helen's truest love will forever and always be warm, knitted things. armed with a fondness for jumpers and a talent for knitting teddy bears, helen (when not writing) enjoys hosting tea parties with her stuffed animals and instructing them on dinner party etiquette, all of whom are becoming as polite and well-mannered as can be! her work deals in themes of nostalgia, mythic inspiration, and the potential of the world around her –– for more, you can follow her on twitter at @rosemaryandwool, and see her recent publications in spellbinder, poetically mag, eucalyptus & rose, seedling poets, green ink poetry, and the martello journal.


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Image by Bree Anne
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