"Black Racers (Single Ladies)", "Jays", & "Chubby" by Jess Levens

Black Racers (Single Ladies)

Along the trail that leads to the river,

I come upon a pit of black racers—

all writhing in a slithering sex ball.

The scaly, onyx orgy disperses as

I approach, flailing away out of sight,

leaving behind only the mating pair.

He thinks himself an anaconda—

truthfully, he’s more like a young, clumsy

boy fumbling to tie his shoelaces.

Her vacant stare confirms it—what I mean is

I’m sorry, ladies. Being you seems so

exhausting, and it’s really not your fault.

Jays

Sparrow’s sweet birdsong became cries of dread.

Two blue dragoons, riding skyward, they came.

The Blue Jays dove down to devour the bread.

They touched down in the snow and cocked their heads.

With two savage squawks, the Jays laid their claim.

Sparrow’s sweet birdsong became cries of dread.

She could not defend, so she flapped and fled.

Each hollow wing beat rose anger and shame.

The Blue Jays dove down to devour the bread.

Sparrow turned ‘round—of bravery misled.

The Jays set upon her slight birdly frame.

Sparrow’s sweet birdsong became cries of dread.

The blood-rusted snow was feathered with red.

Sparrow did thrust and a Jay she did maim.

The Blue Jays dove down to devour the bread.

Sparrow lay dying, and one Jay lay dead.

One Blue Jay stayed, eating—flightless and lame.

Sparrow’s sweet birdsong became cries of dread.

The Blue Jays dove down to devour the bread.

Chubby

His old, leather collar leads me to cry. It still smells like him, even though it's been

ten years since I took poor Chubby to die.

I found him curled up in the closet by

her white dress, laying limp-legged and thin.

Tugging his collar, I begged him to try.

But cold truth lurked in his nebulous eyes.

His sad, grieving mother kissed his gray chin

and then sighed. Our dog was ready to die.

With one careful caress, she said goodbye.

One last country drive stole one final grin,

but heavy, his collar. Old Chubby cried.

Pass peacefully, pup—it’s just you and I.

Life pushes out as the pink pushes in.

Vacant, his collar still leads me to cry.

That was the day I took Chubby to die.

Jess Levens is a poet and photographer who lives with his wife, sons and dogs in New England, where he draws inspiration from the region’s landscapes and history. His poetry has been published in The Dillydoun Review and Prometheus Dreaming. Jess is a Marine Corps veteran and Northeastern University alum.