Poems by Jessica Ankeny

Self-Portrait as a Tarantula Hawk Wasp

I was born inside something dying.
There was only one way out.

I have since spent my time eating flowers
to make the taste of flesh go away.

No one touches me.
My wings are bright as a poppy,

evolved to frighten everything
but the flowers. Almost dead

is the same as still alive. I regret
living. How can something

that was once inside of us
ever go away?

My Life with the Saints

When I was a boy and therefore safer
I would visit Austin on his night-shift at the 7-11

and watch the zombies shuffle in for microwavable pie
or cigarettes. Later, when Austin became one of them

his eyes as hollow as the needle he carried everywhere,
he called himself Saint Sebastian. You know, that hot

guy in all the museums: barely dressed, arms tied
above his head, body full of arrows. He writhes

in those paintings, every muscle alive and straining.
But Sebastian didn’t die from the punctures, he was healed

and then clubbed to death suddenly after. I think that
was Austin’s favorite part, being famous for something

you’ve healed from. One of the last times I saw him
he was black-out drunk at my birthday party, and ashed

in every one of the wine bottles. He puked
on the front and back porch. I had turned

into a girl by then, and didn’t know now to forgive him.
I still miss him. We loved the saints for the same reason,

because with the pain on their faces when they die
is the realization that they had, all this time, been alive.

Jessica Ankeny‘s poems can be found or are forthcoming in Mid-American Review, Missouri Review, Cincinnati Review and elsewhere. She is author of the chapbook, One Simple Step to Keeping a Clean Gun. Originally from Albuquerque, Jessica currently lives in Los Angeles with her cat, Mr. Joni Mitchell.