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Jennifer Lagier



He is used to 

being a fixer, 

doesn’t understand 

when I bitch, 

share dirty secrets, 

spew my frustration. 

It doesn’t mean I 

am a damsel in distress, 

silently imploring 

his intervention. 

I’m not a broken machine 

crying out for repair, 

a fallen flower needing 

superman’s rescue. 

My screwed up life 

is not a puzzle 

requiring solution, 

my kvetching just context  

to assist a friend’s  






My mother is like 

an unstoppable terrier, 

sinks her teeth into 

whatever, whoever 

sticks in her craw, 

won't let go. 

Wants things done 



exactly her way. 

Instructs the receptionist 

how to schedule appointments. 

Lectures her accountant 

on completing taxes. 

Lines out family,  

repair men, 

doctors, lawyers. 

“Nobody pays attention 

to details, follows through, 

gives a shit about standards," 

she fumes, ripping 

into offenders. 



Two a.m. 


Can’t find a position 

to escape into sleep. 

There's emptiness 

where you used to be, 

a black hole in my night. 

The usual antidotes  

aren’t working: 

wine, pills, mindless t.v. 

Nothing erases what aches. 

This time you've broken skin, 

drawn blood, taken me down. 

Tomorrow I will return 

to familiar remedies: 

pump iron, 

powerwalk steep hills, 

ignore new scars, 

remember the lesson 

I've learned. 



Jennifer Lagier’s eight books are: Coyote Dream Cantos, Where We Grew Up, Second-Class Citizen, The Mangia Syndrome, Fishing for Portents, Agent Provocateur, Hookup With Chinaski and Penetrating the Mist. She taught with California Poets in the Schools and is now a retired college librarian/instructor, member of the Italian American Writers Association, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, Rockford Writers Guild and helps coordinate monthly Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium Second Sunday readings. Visit her website at: