Tag Archives: Jennifer Bullis

Landscape with Mud and Prints
by Jennifer Bullis

The trails slick and soggy after three months’ snow
and rain. Water fills the woods, floors all the low places
with slow-flowing brown and gray.
Sometimes, the water silvers, and branches above,
as always, green.

Among still-bare canes of wild rose and salmonberry,
a new path tramped by dogs off-leash
leads to a puddle, now pond. I follow the paw prints
to see. At the squelchy water-edge, two big,
oblong prints, made by—knees?

Narcissus, you were supposed to have faded
back into nature: set your roots into the soil
and affixed your eyes to the mirroring murk.
Instead you arose and took power.
You arose in rage, took weapons

into your hands, began to take and take.
Walking these woods, I look around as though
saying goodbye. That’s what women do, right?
A process of subtraction. Now I’m waiting for it all
to be taken from me.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 1.

Jennifer BullisJennifer Bullis grew up in Reno, earned a Ph.D. in English at UC Davis, and taught college writing and literature in Bellingham, Washington, for fourteen years. Her first collection of poems, Impossible Lessons, was published by MoonPath Press in 2013.

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I Anticipate a Metamorphosis
by Jennifer Bullis

My fear is a flight pattern.
It circles and rides the updrafts.

I want these stars, all they swallow
along the valley: the firs,

backlit by the full-moon rise,
the bay simmering under its height,

my own tight-breathed anticipation,
whispered gust of autumn.

I want all this carrying.
That moon could be my head, scythed,

mirroring in a long, sustained manner.
My exoskeleton is heavy. I will suffer its loss.

My scattering is a hanging cry, an abrupt
transition, a door into the mountain.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.

Jennifer BullisJennifer Bullis grew up in Reno, earned a Ph.D. in English at UC Davis, and taught college writing and literature in Bellingham, Washington, for fourteen years. Her first collection of poems, Impossible Lessons, was published by MoonPath Press in 2013.

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Organize Your Home Using This Weird Old Trick
by Jennifer Bullis

When you get all the way down to the sub-atomic level,
the location of any particle is not governed by laws
but is merely predicted by probability.

So think of the microdust gassing away
from the delaminating soles of your loafers
as possessing a 0.00031% chance of knowing

where you put away the furniture polish
last time you used it, which was perhaps a year or more ago,
because who uses actual furniture polish?

It’s not on the list of 10 Foods You Should Never Eat.
It’s not even The Secret the Power Company
Doesn’t Want You To Know About.

Nevertheless, new advertisements will be coming
to your area soon! While you wait, make a wager
as to how all those apparently solid objects in your cupboards

are planning to mingle with the apparently solid knickknacks,
cleaning implements, and labor-saving devices
you will be shoving onto the shelves with them

as you sprint around tidying up before company arrives.
Just remember where you put away your voice:
middle drawer on the left. Your fear of judgment,

behind the door in the kitchen. Your nostalgia,
in the pantry next to the oregano. Your doubts—
those, you let out to roam the neighborhood.
 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 3.

Jennifer BullisJennifer Bullis grew up in Reno, earned a Ph.D. in English at UC Davis, and taught college writing and literature in Bellingham, Washington, for fourteen years. Her first collection of poems, Impossible Lessons, was published by MoonPath Press in 2013.

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Visit Jennifer Bullis’s contributors page.