Sunrise over OH Co Rd 9
February dawn. White frosted fields in rose
glow, spindly weeds at the edge outlined
with white, weighted over into the creek,
mist rising where the light reaches,
round hay bales with white plastic covers,
marshmallow farms, we used to call them.
A man, a car, a horse steam,
mouth, tailpipe, rear disappearing
over a hill towards a steeple. A few crows
pick at something on the side
of the road. I pull into a gravel drive
and see a silver car; a woman
has told me the truth.
It’s Sunday morning
as I drive home
with a photo of her car,
smoke coming from the chimney,
all doubt burned away
as I pull down the sunshade
and the frost starts to disappear.
Norway Night
July, after midnight,
I am roused by men singing
a cheerful chorus.
I turn over
and hear two women
on the dock below
my open window
come out of the sauna
and jump into cold water
emerging with shouts of glee.
It’s two in the morning
and the sky is still lit,
like the men and women.
Why should I waste
another moment inside,
take this lying down?
Sunny Hill Coffee Shop
The white formica tables
and silver napkin dispensers
are clean and empty, as if waiting
for jolly businessmen who would
grin while asking the waitress if she
was a model, “‘cause you’re so tall”
and pat her behind if she didn’t side
step quick enough on the way back
to the place she could stand
and clean silverware instead
of smiling at the old guys
to get a tip, a dish washer
looking on, polyester uniform
skirt repelling each drop of water.
Sarah Siddons as the Tragic Muse
We sat in the room with your portrait
and all the other ladies in filmy dresses,
gazing at the Blue Boy and debating
which dress we’d rather wear if we got
the choice, and she picked a very filmy,
very wrapped-up dress, one I hadn’t
admired because it wouldn’t suit me
and it dawned on me, sitting there,
that this was a perfectly good way of seeing
the world, trying pieces of it on, even when
the man with us didn’t want to consider
any of the dresses but picked the blue
satin of the boy’s pants, adopting the way
he cocked his head, looking back.
Adjunct Exit Interview, Kenyon College
Did you feel equipped to take on everything that we asked you to do?
Did you notice anything I did?
Did you have a clear understanding of the larger purpose of your work?
Always, as I explained my purpose to a new Ass Provost every year.
Did you get constructive feedback on your work?
No one noticed I was there until I left.
What did you enjoy most and find most satisfying?
Autonomy. The years of it.
What was the least enjoyable or most frustrating thing?
Loneliness. The years of it.
How would you describe the culture you tried to create in your service?
A culture of kindness, in response to the calls for more rigor.
If you could change anything about your position for the next person in this role, what would you change?
The half-time pay and lack of benefits.
Did the institution’s response to the pandemic contribute to your decision to leave?
Did it deepen my isolation? Of course.
If circumstances were different in the future, would you ever consider coming back?
If circumstances were different, I would still be there, unnoticed.
Jeanne Griggs is a reader, writer, traveller, and violinist. She directed the writing centre at Kenyon College from 1991-2022. Her presentations include “A Survey of Reanimation, Resurrection, and Necromancy in Fiction since Frankenstein” for ICFA, her reviews include Stephen Dunn’s The Not Yet Fallen World for Heavy Feather Review, and her volume of poetry, published by Broadstone Books, is entitled Postcard Poems. She reviews poetry and fiction at NecromancyNeverPays.com.
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