Two Poems by Jessica Lange


waves cracked open on the sand like eggs
the summer we spent in the margins 
of a landscape, watching Psyche 
get her toes done. 

tell me

did you mean to be gone

or to master 
eating alone
in uniform ?

the postcard i sent you 
saying the clerk at the museum gift shop
has buzzed his Dali mustache down

came back. it was august and 
the day i left and i smelled cinnamon 
and heard eggs frying
in an empty Ruby Tuesday’s at the airport.

i shuddered once 
and something bowed 
its head
like a beast.






rain comes 
to collect the city.

the roads are smeared 
in stoplights, blinking 
back at us. 

no one is awake but me 
and the girl who never lifts 
her feet, her voice so soft 

you have to lean in
to taste it. her breath is thin 
as her arms and sour. she says 

I’m afraid this wall 
is absolutely calm. 
I’m afraid this wall 

will be your undoing, 
and you’ll be in the center of it and 
my god, you don’t know.




Editor's Note: "witnesses" has been published previously in FORTH Magazine.



Jessica Lange is a writer living in Los Angeles. Her work has been featured in FORTH Magazine.