When Asked What Is Happiness

Like a pill in punctuation form
only the other way around.
Like pleasantries in the hallway.
Or intrepid music from a passing car.
Typed letters look like felt in a certain light.
Trifles, not trivets, tricycles, not tickets.
Facial features in the bark of a tree.

Excess pigment.
Pink spit.
A harried white rabbit.

When you rush into,
if you rush into, the way you rush into,
don’t rush.

Bitterness.
Packed luggage.
A prairie.

I dream of Rachel and I’m young again,
and I wear lipstick that smears onto my cheeks.
Down to the shed, a bro-party, lenient
with the color red, those solo cups
aren’t going anywhere.

Roses.
Virulent sunsets.
Toy soldiers.

A little girl comes running down the street with her
pigtails bouncing and it’s the daughter I never had and
in her hands she holds the doll I never had and the
sun is shining a color I never knew and the clouds look
like a ghost I never saw and I always wanted to see
a ghost because I’m too alone sometimes and I’d like
to thank the dictionary for making all of this possible.

Jennifer Metsker lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan where she is the Writing Coordinator at the Stamps School of Art and Design. Her poetry has appeared in many journals including The Cincinnati Review, The Southern Review, Cimarron Review, Gulf Coast, The Seattle Review, Whiskey Island, Cream City Review, and The Journal. She has written art reviews for Arthopper and Carbon Culture and her audio poetry has been regularly featured on the BBC radio show Short Cuts.

© 2020