© 2020 jeanne henry

The original version of this poem appeared in Goliath Magazine

There is Truth

Maybe the story

starts with mold

growing from dishes


& how people should

touch things.

Speaking of touching,

have you read the one about how a man

could hit a woman, but didn’t?

How he showed bold restraint.


A friend

makes a kind comment

about a woman

posting a picture of herself

because she knew she looked good.


A truth, 

called a story,

to make everyone

more comfortable.

Like when a woman

is asked to prove her rape.

To make the story, truth.



There are people disappearing.

A silence that moves its mouth.

If a tin-roof

in a hailstorm

is called war,

what is a cop

that moves in

to kill black bodies?

& who are those (?)

that don’t hear the sirens

only ordinary sadness of white men

drowning under desks.


& when it’s not in the news,

& when it’s never in the news,

the children on the street have

always known where to hide

& who is cruel and unsafe.

There is a truth

& not enough

eyes that blink.


-- Graveyard Shift in Banango Lit

-- Apartment 3C 100 Word Story

-- I'm Sorry in Josephine Quarterly

-- 2 Poems in The Mackinac

-- 3 poems in Brickplight

-- 2 Poems in Public Pool

-- 2 Poems in By&By Poetry

-- City Music in Driftwood Press

-- I said to my God in Crab Fat Magazine

The original poem, 'of want,'  was published in Vol 8.1 of Prick of the Spindle

I want to talk about 

time. Tearing apart. 


The way geography 

fooled the stove inside 

the living room & listen. 


I want to know how 

I’m supposed to light

in a city captivated by

the midnight thought

puncturing daytime.


Tick, tock masking

distaste of emptiness

inside millions of beds 

bruised with want.


‘Cause I don’t want 

compensation hunger: 

something about someone 



About you or an oil 

mark flowering inside a 

broken refrigerator. 


The teapot is screaming. 

I want spent time with 

tangled limbs. 


Absolving lie after lie. 

Folding grief into beauty. 

of want