Jenn Ashton, “That Time There Was a Bear in the Driveway”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the daughter of my voice

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The daughter,

of my voice

is not

Eating the petals Off a nail

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I want to play seriously on the roof​​ 

with an enormous aptitude​​ 

for beads: peeling bad

capital from myself,

yet not despairing over the belief-

system taping the war to the sky.

Already it is fairly​​ 

molten in its blue flaw.​​ 

 Wringing wet sleet​​ 

from the stone connotes​​ 

finally the tactic,​​ 

of the belief-

system: like

the smooth grind of a sentence—

& our blinking concerns the beauty​​ 

of a hexagon sky. The night dots lift now:​​ 

on quilted tents with trees approaching: & to​​ 

imagine it,​​ 

with devastating​​ 

pathos, we unfurl​​ 

like a revolting battery.​​ 

The attacks can wait; nothing​​ changes

their true power. And​​ 

 it​​ is​​ true,​​ 

chanting this​​ 

 token

fluency to the night​​ 

finally in memory of us, ​​ As if the

light soup pours​​ ​​ /​​ ​​ Off the flat of the knife​​ 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being  ​​ ​​ ​​​​ seen isn’t quite like that

 

 

Like cant anna

herself unsure​​ 

The task off​​ 

 

falls from the quilt

like can’t Anna

In  ​​ ​​​​ damage to eat listening

 

Comb  ​​ ​​​​ lies across

falls from the quilt

 

then he stood quickly without guilt

herself unsure

High heels in the snow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a dark, crowbar of paranoia  ​​ ​​​​ 

Passive ​​ 

 

against

the drilled​​  ​​ sky of my arms

 

Bleeding  ​​​​ traditional stillness. And it is

 

In my breast to react.

And it is the same sorry beep of a trap.

And it is in​​ 

 

the mind of the line, such

predilection​​ for the lucent artery

Brilliant 

 

with dark comprehension​​ ​​ to

 

Bear me, with extraordinary

disgust for it, so I sleep as the slender ​​ Tool

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boy starving into me

the

entrance

bones  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ Her beautiful head

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Honest to  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ God I can't. ​​​​ Fluttering  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ with micro-lie.  ​​​​ I am a  ​​ ​​​​ . I am Eating  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ cake. I am eating pang cakes. I am eating pang  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ . I walk out in the snow.  ​​ ​​ ​​​​ You had your  ​​ ​​ ​​​​ Moment  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ I had mine. I wanted​​ 

​​ ​​ Experience  ​​ ​​​​ 

wind ​​ -shield. ​​​​  ​​ ​​ ​​​​ you ​​ asked,

what does the factory  ​​ ​​ ​​​​ Make? ​​ ​​​​ Factories

Across

& A rash of lamb  ​​​​ belts  ​​ 

& I walk out in the snow. I make​​  ​​   ​​ ​​​​ in the​​  Ha.  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ (​​ still I experience ​​ itas a lack.) ​​ Still  ​​ ​​ ​​​​ experience  ​​ ​​​​ Lack.​​ ​​ I walk into the snow.  ​​ ​​​​ I experience​​ 

Lack. everything  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ Relates. the axe slams​​ 

Kindness into the tree​​ 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On wet

Speed in the library, the social

situations slide  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ Like beautiful wipers

until I am crying like a twinkling​​ 

diagram,

As if the whole​​ 

 

city were one,

grinding cocaine hierarchy.​​ 

And it must be my destiny:

fluent

 

in

Unassailable strings of braided syrup, to say

 

Obviously, there is a bold, shitty​​ 

Kind of

 

magic  ​​​​ to life​​ .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ well How did you expect the tableau to deplete? I re- walked the whole thing.  ​​​​ you had  ​​ ​​​​ thrown me something, i remarked on that a Year ago,  ​​​​ almost a difficultshelf-like buildings.  ​​ ​​​​ quoted some idiot, &before​​ i even finished I  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ learned the power of your reward:  ​​ ​​ ​​​​ it was just, certain muscles of the face. but I have. ​​​​ not  ​​ ​​ ​​​​ 

seen this town. How? how not. where squares of sheer color are the sky

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I​​ 

edit

the violets myself

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the land escapes around you

 

 

Anyway the land escapes around you

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Monroe Lawrence was born and grew up on unceded Coast Salish Lands. His favourite writers include Hannah Weiner, Vi Khi Nao, Marcel Proust, and listen chen. His past writing can be found in Best American Experimental Writing and The Capilano Review, and in a chapbook, Nice,.