Jeanne Julian
Succulent
I’ve kept this crappy cactus alive
for years, doting, respectful of its hardy
rigid presence, its nature: no water,
no fertilizer, only daylight’s embrace
while I faithfully kept my distance. Now
my pin-cushion pal relents on his sill, tilts
inward, away from our window, his source
of gusto. Renounces his solo public sundance.
You, my succulent musketeer, now needily
aim your quills homeward, as if yearning for
something softer. Less exposed, more intimate.
You lean my way, closing in on the comforting
shadows of my chaise longue, as if longing to bury
your sharp bristles in receptive crevices between
my pillows covered in clean contempo patterns,
to stick yourself safely into seductive luxe.
Well well, my spunky prodigal spindle: learn
from my mistake. Better to stay stoic.
Fend off the urge to relent. Appearances
can be deceiving. For instance. There’s a coverup
on that chair, a trendy trap: bright chic motifs
on an antique bespeak glamour, but camouflage
a hidden ugly stain. Best left
unremembered.
But okay, yes: I surrendered there,
once. Let down my guard, thought myself
a bohemian babe in bloom, silken and wanton,
fragrant as honeysuckle, mouthed like an orchid,
lithe and binding as ivy. But he left me. Split.
Vanished. I’m alone. Except for you, Mr. Untouchable.
You prick. I’d slap you silly, crush your canted
thick and spiny shaft, but it would hurt too much.
On Hold
1.
On hold: schools, churches, the building
of a house, the source
of income, the going to the gathering,
time
No hold: on
the hand of a dying father,
the course of contagion,
the voice of reason,
time
Outpatient in extremis
holed up and on hold, waiting
for the next available person to assist
as my phone soundlessly counts seconds I think it will startle
Listen carefully,
as our options have recently changed.
For English, press one. Para español, oprima dos.
For anything else,
hold on, press on, press on, press on
me to hear a
healer’s hearty voice at last.
What will I say first after all these seconds?
_________ speaking,
(Behold!)
may I help you?
Yes, I am holding out
for whatever holistic
assistance
you can remotely bestow
that may make me whole again.
Wholed. At least, in part.
Any Patient Portal in a storm.
2.
Long ago letting go, falling
in love, on its threshold
I asked of you
would you rather enfold or be enfolded?
Your answer was the right one.
Hold me, hold
me and hold on
as the albatross borne on air
as the sequoia surrounded by fire
as the seed enveloped in frozen earth
as the turtle in the vault of deep water
as the embryo in the hold of a womb
hold on
3.
Listen carefully, as our options have recently changed.
May all that is holy hold on
Jeanne Julian once won Camp Wyandot’s tall-tale telling contest. She is author of Like the O in Hope and two chapbooks. Her poems are in many journals and have won awards from Reed Magazine, Comstock Review, and Naugatuck River Review. Having visited every U.S. state, she lives in Maine.
