Jennifer Loyd | Poetry
Some days I aspire to be the kind of woman
who owns only one tier of panties.
She would know the correct order
in which to eat a breakfast
of pineapple, cashews, and green tea,
without having to factor-in cavities.
She would not bruise herself
with a knife and fork. She did not sit
silent while the linguist claimed bees
do not possess language.It matters
which questions we ask. Do animals
have language? Why don’t animals have language?
(The Italian brand name for DDT was “flit,”
as in, this’ll stop the bees from flitting about.)
That woman though—she has managed to live
within sight of the ocean. Even as I write this,
there is a man lying naked in a bed in her house,
the sea, flat as a photograph, lies beyond
his reach. That man is beautiful, and unnecessary,
unlike water. Unlike bees. Unlike desire.
What if I want everything?
What do I do with people who don’t?
Her desire is comfortable,
even pressing, as it does, against these seams.
Based in West Texas, Jennifer Loyd is a poet, translator, and a former editor for Copper Nickel, West Branch, and Sycamore Review. For her poetry exploring the archives of Rachel Carson, she has received a Stadler Fellowship, as well as research grants from Purdue University, where she earned an MFA. Her poems and prose, which explore the intersection between private voice and public narratives, appear in Best New Poets 2022, The Southern Review, The Rumpus, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, and elsewhere.