Three poems by Jennifer Vaknine • Empty Mirror

cloudune / credit: decloudune / credit: de

saving schrödinger’s cat

I read an article on my phone
on the train
about changing

truth at the quantum level
about making the quarks choose
sides & I thought

about the time in the tall grass
in the garden of broken cars
in your mother’s backyard

& I thought about the bird’s nest
in the dead engine
and the prize abandoned

in the center, crooked
& cracked
and robin’s egg blue

in the dark when it’s morning

the night’s line blurs, becomes
branches tangled like the attic’s
Christmas lights.

it’s still
too much. I kiss my thumb
to lingering stars, navigate

the infinite with my body
until it fades into rosy rust
and birdsong

after they sign the papers

she curves in on herself —
a lawn chair folded
after the first frost

her dirty spade chases
the sun’s arc past her
hydrangeas, as it falls it smudges

her chest. that’s nothing
really, just a chamber
for recycled blood. this is the world,

she mutters something about seeds some
thing about knowing
whether they’re planted

or languishing
in pretty foil packets
in messy dark drawers. her hands hunger

for soil they tear earth
from earth — they are long
spindled and starving

and this is how deep
to dig if she buries them
now they’ll sleep beneath

the coming snow
they’ll slumber
underfoot like bears

About Jennifer Vaknine

Jennifer Vaknine is from Austin, Texas and lives in NYC. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in Gone Lawn, Riggwelter, Slipstream Press, Third Point Press, and *82 Review. Her Twitter handle is @jvak91.

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