small room with an east facing window


small room with an east facing window


there, on a hill, just over a rise

behind a yellow house, just past the river

beyond a burnt-out church

and a tree with the rope still hanging from it

past broken glass littering streets of a small town,

after marches and rallies,

yelling and crying.

further, just there, past the city and its riots

fist pumping vigilantism, cries for justice

and peace and opportunity

a little further, across an open field;

the red house atop a hill,

through the front door,

down a short hall with its wooden floor

and framed memories lining the walls.


enter a door, a small room with an east facing window,

single chair up against an old, round table

a pen lays atop a faded piece of paper,


"Thus, I rest this last refrain

linger not a solitary word...

for I have lived past the moment

and farther still than I can see."


there, in the corner of the small room

on a chair made of cedar

sits a man, hands folded across his lap,

a smile of serenity on his face

he is old and tired, his fingers long

and gnarled with time.

he points at me, and then east.

out past golden fields, over hills

past small farms and towns and cities.


stand where your heart beats most loud,

he says,


and i take a single step.




another birthday

blown on bye

it’s been a month,

feels like a day


i’m getting older, baby


a fat sad sun lingers

higher in baleful sky,

clouds will consume

us all, well before the dawn


i lock the closet door,

place the key in a small

wooden box, just

in case i have to go back inside


i’m getting older, baby


the sun’s about to set




jacklyn henry


bio: jacklyn henry is a genderqueer writer based on the fringe of sanity, Los Angeles. she has had some success of late at: delicate friend, flying dodo, H S T, pink disco, cream scene carnival, and, in a different lifetime, ariel chart. 

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