Christmas Morning Revisited

By A. Jenson

Dreamt about addict parents last night    but listen
the whole thing was tender    and I woke up warm
I dreamt it was christmas   and all of us kids knew
they’d black out, forgetting what’s most important
So we dug through their things and found presents
lipsticks and old CDs   and books they’d inscribed
with notes to us    heartfelt—maybe sober—words
And  even though the sentiments were kinda corny
and even though the makeup was old   and curdled
we  dream-thieves  arranged these gifts into stacks
feeling proud to be so cherished 

​ and remembered.

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When Not​ to Trust Mothers

By A. Jenson

what you ultimately gave
was porch light between slats in a fence
flicker here, occlusion there
the gate to family locked
rattling when shaken
 
a woman’s voice said horrible things
through heaving, hurled sob-sounds
until you blocked the number, recall
and remolded my plastic brains
 
mother, you portioned slices I starved on
let me read the photocopy, partially redacted
with slivers of bare bulb white
filtered through your fingers, and only yours
 
the grip weakens over time
there was no pothole, no blind spot
no fault of the weather or the car
just a warrant catching like fire in a stolen engine
 
 
 
you gave what you could accept yourself, I think
a sort of bedtime story tyranny
that won’t gather me close or keep anyone alive
but, with all of your exhausting effort
will turn your last child against you

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Your Goneness is Buying Cigarettes

By A. Jenson

Your goneness is, itself, an adult
six feet tall, too much energy, a bit of acne
(horny)
The awayness of you
could legally drive to the old Jackpot
could buy a carton of cigs with a plastic card
The emptiness that hollowed your wife
and nipped at the heels of those kids
is now old enough to be a father
to have fallen in love
to have accrued interest on debt, shit
          might even be headed to prison by now
So I’ll wish your absence a happy return
and recommend some new movies
(rated R ones)
I’ll show it pictures
of your children, and of your children’s children
each one a stranger to you, but— 
all of us companions to your
          awkward
          gangly
          forever growing-up
          goneness

---

Junuary

By A. Jenson

What is farming, if not this
revisiting packets of grain and counting
dropping money in the ground
covering it up
the cortisol spikes, the probability of failure
 
I hate to see the withered yellow funk
of a field melted by frost
months of my body blotted out in a night
but what is farming otherwise
 
these vulnerabilities are vast
a chill in June travels the wet roads through town
visits us at our tender roots;
rots my aching back and crumbling knees;
breaks perennial hope into amendments for next season’s dirt
 
what is farming
a few naked sticks plugged into a row
gambling on rain, gambling on sun
composting the losses and—quickly as you can—reseeding

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​A. Jenson is a non-binary writer, artist, and farmer living in the United States. Their work most recently appears in issues of San Antonio Review, Breakwater Review, and Bellevue Literary Review. They were awarded the Bicoastal Review poetry prize in 2025 and are featured in the Washington Queer Poetry Anthology. You can (sometimes) find them on Instagram at @adotjenson.