Brett Elizabeth Jenkins

Prime Suspect

I need first and last month's poems up front, plus
security deposit. My poems get good gas mileage.
Put a deep bend in your knees, and roll your poems
up one on top of another. Your head should be the last
thing to come up. We sat together on a poem all night
watching movies. On Wednesdays she cuts flowers
and puts them in a vase full of poems. We saw two
poems feeding in their natural habitat, pulling apart
tendons and muscles, covered in blood. Stephanie
peeled and ate that poem piece by piece. Hook up
those cables to my poem and give it a good jump.
If you rub a poem on the stain, it should come right out.
A black and white spotted poem sat cooing on the balcony.
Before I head out, I throw on my poems and do some
light stretching. Our poem is screeching on the stove;
can you turn off the gas? At night, the poem goes out
dressed darkly, searching for justice. Thomas flips
impatiently through poems, looking for the word
he wants to say. The poem had a wingspan of nearly thirty feet,
but is now extinct and found only in museums. A few
weeks before Christmas, I set up my poem carefully,
turning each piece until it was just as I liked it. Maria waves
to me from the top of the poem. The poem is sweet and juicy;
we had a good harvest this year. Do not let your children
experiment with poems. I hold a poem up to my face
in the morning to put on my makeup. This poem will definitely
keep you warm through the winter, or your money back.
Can you smell that poem? Touch my poem.
I grunted until a poem dropped right out into the toilet.
That mean old poem got up in front of the class
and gave out detention after detention. The poem was a trendy
hat in the early 1800's. Let me rub your poem on my lips.
It's rumored that women can see poems on moonless nights,
or hear them wailing in the forest. David pulled the poem
by its handle and was not surprised at what he found down there.
I stuck my poem inside her real good. On May 30th,
 the Poem was burned alive at the stake. We are not finished
collecting evidence, but the poem is our prime suspect thus far.

Brett Elizabeth Jenkins lives and writes in Saint Paul, where she teaches writing classes. Look for her work in Beloit Poetry Journal, PANK, Revolver, Paper Darts, Sixth Finch, and elsewhere.