Jenna Rindo Verse-Virtual 2018 August

August 2018

I live in rural Wisconsin with my husband Ron and our youngest son Noah. We raised five children on a five acre parcel and now mostly tend to apple trees, vegetable gardens, our flock of chickens and a small herd of Shetland Sheep. My poems and essays have been recently published in Prism Review, Calyx and Natural Bridge.

I had a strong and strange attachment to a cardigan sweater that belonged to my favorite uncle. It is a beautiful argyle pattern and sadly synthetic rather than wool. Still, after the elbows became threadbare I had a friend alter it into a vest so I could continue wearing it. The stain of smoke is my uncle's tobacco.

On the Sadness of Sweaters
After James Galvin

On the thick summer mornings
when heat seeps into each
corner, each crease, I can hear
the sweaters sighing. They are
stored in cedar chests, sleeves
folded toward torso, a faint
stain of smoke lingers along the hem.

Some sweaters weep, contained
in strange plastic boxes, lids are
locked against moths, against
light, then slid under beds like
the girly magazines my brother
slipped between mattress and box
spring.

Soon these sweaters are filled
with undiagnosed shame. The tag
on the seam boasting wool or cashmere
material fades away. Caustic sweat
stored in each armpit from interviews gone
wrong reek in the brew of summer heat.

The sweaters dream of harvest moons,
chilly nights, shoulder to shoulder around
a campfire. Guitar picks and candy
apple lipsticks wait to be pulled from deep
pockets. Long sleeves yearn to be tugged
over fingers, wait to be blessed with necessity.

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