I will be home late

I found in the lull of the menial
without cankerous soul impressing its form;
a sort of hum-drum counted in over-exposure,
the neon architecture in Las Vegas
I hear the someone in the strumming sirens,
but pain is at a distance.

Constance, don't you flip on the burner
to light your hair on f-i-i-i-re
another apoplectic dancer

To the left, these dinner tables
were made for folded napkins
Five centuries of typeface were made for me
to sleep dreams of a passing window
perched in the top of an A like a tree house,
but heavier than that, more an attic

Constance, don't you flip on the burner
to light your hair on f-i-i-i-re
another apoplectic dancer

There's no validity thinking that
subjectivity breathes in synoptic

Five-thirty used to be the time
when my family ate dinner together
I would trade what I thought valueless
for any of what is considered collateral

Jennifer Sussex has been featured in The Village Voice, The Chicago Tribune, PBS Student Voices: Washington Week, Our Young Art, The Gargoyle and The Michigan Daily. All material on this site is subject to licensing under the Creative Commons.