Three Poems: Jennifer Perrine
When He Asks where you are, and you refuse to give exact coordinates Think instead of saying, mountains, saying, snow. Think of how you might describe the sun’s luster on those mountains, the cool glister of that snow. Now think of that opal he gave you two months into your smittenness, after the gods knocked you over with such a blow you wore that blue jewel in the hollow of your collarbone, shiner on a silver chain around your neck. Think of how it winked and flashed like the crimson throats of the hummingbirds he fed with sugar and water mixed and poured into red-ribboned glass. Think of his hands, stirring the fine crystals until they dissolved, as if they were never there at all, magic trick to make the sweetness disappear. Remember that taste, that dazzle like the glory around the moon on the day of the eclipse, when one of his hummingbirds battered its relentless wings against your chest,