The Eavesdropper by Jane Blue

The Eavesdropper
found in a journal, April 2, 2008
by Jane Blue

The smell of orange rind under my fingernails,
the taste of strawberries, destroyed
still life on a black saucer. I ate all the grapes.
Some people are talkers, some are writers.
A murderer left detailed notes of his crime.
He was, unfortunately, a writer. His words
condemned him. Some think
it’s dangerous to commit anything to paper.
Words can’t capture an accent. I’m eavesdropping
on a Texan storyteller. “The cat
was right behind me.” A cougar, a puma,
or her own housecat? The hostage-taker
of the storyteller. Words. I once wrote
that I wanted fewer of them. They fill up the world.
Rumors of war and celebrity gossip.
I am not a good storyteller, nor a good
joke teller. A woman from Ukraine finishes
my joke: What do you call someone who speaks
two languages? Bilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks one?
American.

Jane Blue was born and raised in Berkeley, California and now lives with her husband near the Sacramento River. Her poems have appeared or will appear in many print and on-line magazines, She has taught creative writing at women’s centers, colleges and prisons, and privately.

Ghazal of the Cyanide Almond by Jane Blue

Ghazal of the Cyanide Almond
by Jane Blue

The little cyanide almond exposed inside the peach.
The teakettle whimpering instead of whistling.

The pain of last week is gone. An earthquake has rattled Tokyo.
Someone is mowing, always mowing, slashing the street with their noise.

Before I was twenty I had no memories, knitting them together for later.
Dragonflies circle and tilt away like helicopters.

Or cutting trees, murdering trees, with that hoarse, slicing sound.
Last night a panther poured itself through an upper window in a house on a hill.

I lay on a big bed with a former lover, light slanting in like water.
You say your life is narrow, that there is no adventure in it.

A red geranium peeks from behind the sycamore.
Overheard on a television ad: “You can own a new solar system.”

A black honeybee comes to my pen, drawn by the smell of ink?
One memory grows out of another, like a plant from a seed.

Jane Blue was born and raised in Berkeley, California and now lives with her husband near the Sacramento River. Her poems have appeared or will appear in many print and on-line magazines, She has taught creative writing at women’s centers, colleges and prisons, and privately.