Preview of Jen Durbent's new collection, canon
We’re fast approaching the release of Jen Durbent’s canon, and are excited to share with you a sample from the collection!
On Her Existence (2018)
Excuse me! Excuse me! Sorry to bother you while you're reading
your book, and I'm sorry if it's creepy,
but I can't help but notice that you put
non-dairy creamer in your fairly-traded,
organically-grown, coffee-shop coffee. Well, maybe that's not creepy.
But I'm pretty sure that it is creepy that I can't help but notice
the cut of your skirt, the height of your heels,
and you might want to pluck your eyebrows.
I'm not saying this as a judge , but you
might like to know. I just notice
even when if I can't look at myself in the mirror
and take my own advice. I don't want to say more
and I can't help myself and I know
you might be offended and I apologize. It might sound
weird coming from someone
that looks like I do
that I can't decide if I want you
or if I want to be you.
I know that it's not OK. I know you
are a fully formed person and that your presence is not
an invitation. My brain is limited.
These couple pounds of meat is no immovable
object against the unstoppable force of unwanted testosterone.
But I'm trying.
The latter might be more interesting, but it's grown difficult
to discuss, though I will try. I am afraid
I can't help it. Just remember when I say the light in my soul
went out: you had nothing to do with it.
Inside I have my own goddess and she is hope for proper gnosis.
Is it shame that I do not believe in her? I'm afraid
I can't help it. She is barely a breath, nearly invisible
like the steam off chai. I don't think I am being clear.
It's not really my fault; but it is.
I am afraid.
Let me just say it.
Part of me—part of this him—
is a her.
And I'll be damned if she isn't fabulous.
She comes out to say to the universe, "I exist."
But this him pushes her away with tears and
the iron and food and hate and says,
“Just wait, please.” She is patient, but
she doesn't want to wait, not really. She is beyond waiting
and chastising me for edging into cowardice.
I can't blame her. Would you want to be trapped inside
this terrible visage? So I tell her:
"You should never want to be real.
Because the world is worse for hope;
because dreams never ever come true;
because dessert never is as sweet;
because fury never is as righteous;
because sex never is as dirty;
because crying never is enough release;
because love always is lopsided
because whoever gives less has more."
She doesn't believe me. At all. Logic cannot dissuade
her, especially when she's not constructed of logic;
she is the result of the mathematics of synapses, sinew, and hope.
Enough about me, or her, or us!
You inhabit your body, your poise
and your pose
and your placement of leg atop leg
and hand on handle
and the way you hold that book. I can see roots
in your dye job;
somehow that makes me envy you more.
So when I get up to leave, please remember as I pass homeless
teenagers warming their hands over unlit tinders: I do not stare
just because of lust (though I cannot deny that). I stare
because you are beautiful to the one sharing my heart and she
wants to ask you how you became
so beautiful, so real, so true.