The Plague as Portrait of a Sister

for Nicole Chvatal


You on the telephone—I’m ready
to throw myself off a bridge. I’m losing it.
The snowmelt stretches out from gray
to blue. I know this tender bridge with its white
limpets and cement. The way your toes
grip the edge so hard it hurts. The grassy bank
all bare despite the leftover snow. Bald eagles
and their awful noise. What could inoculate
against this? The tidy nest waiting in the eaves,
the vernal pools, the purple tulips swelling
underground. The dog sniffing out the breathing
moles. Sister, shall we sink by land or sea?
Nothing floats. We laugh because all our brothers do
is beat us up at Hearts. They ignore our parents.
They’re always fucking around on boats.

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Jen Ryan Onken lives and teaches in southern Maine. Recent poems have appeared on Maine Public Radio, The Night Heron Barks, and Love's Executive Order. She was the Maine Poet's Society winner of their 2019 prize for previously unpublished poets. Her micro chapbook, That First Toss, was a finalist for the 2019 Washburn Prize at Harbor Review. Jen recently completed her MFA from Warren Wilson's Program for Writers.