Jenn Powers


WRITER & VISUAL ARTIST

FACELESS

​By Jenn Powers

November 2017

it was around this time—
dead ochre trees, the sky
a steel ceiling, cold clouds.
he wrote a note, unsigned
jagged needles [dead],
slashing any safety [soon]
left in this [worthwhile]
world, [slam].

it was a day like this—
crimson & old stone, the smell
of snow pushing inside
the school, hair tangled
telephone wires, he’s out there,
somewhere, and sometimes
I still scream at night, dizzy
random nights, like he’s there
at the foot of the bed,
and my back is forever pressed
against the locker, vivid
flash of [red],
              black.​