Poems & Essays

13 Jul

Four Words

General/Column No Response

I’m lost in the words
at the tip of my tongue,
in the folds of my skirt,
pulling at my hand
when I’m cooking,
wanting something,
as the soup scorches
smelling of burned
beans and carrots,
celery, onions, and red
peppers. Holy trinity.

On the floor, I sing,
hand sign, I love you,
fly airplanes,
drive trains to break
through your silence.
I would give you my words
as I have given you my heart.
Hear these four words:
Mother, son, love, and loved.
You hear. Your hands shake
trying to remember, arms
gesturing in wide circles,
babbling in the language
of the silent, quick desperate
love. I am giving you words, here,
this is all I have. Take it,
right now take all of me.


Danelle Lejeune is a wanderer, a beekeeper, a farmer, a mother who gave up on art for nearly twenty years until an alligator in the marshes off the coast of Georgia convinced her to look twice. Since then she has been published in Literary Mama, Red River Review, and Fifth Wednesday Journal. Forthcoming work in Whale Road Review and Red Paint Hill Press. Her photos have appeared in Portland Review and Flyway Journal. She’s been a poet in residence at Vermont Studio Center, attended Charles University in Prague, and is the assistant to the Director at Ossabaw Writer’s Retreat (where the alligator lives….)

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