The Poetry
of Jennifer Christina Barnes
It’s the greasy
streaks
of fingers on the trunks
of shiny
cars
that keeps coming
back
making me see the
mother
with a child
balanced
on her left
hip
and groceries at her
feet
reaching
up.
It's a child who is
told
not to touch old
statues,
shown the
traces
of uncaring
fingertips,
then
dreams
of a tearful stone
woman
and always wakes,
reaching.