Her Heart in Czech


I remember thinking how your heart
was getting tangled with Czech and how
vines overtake a wall.

I remember the frustrated locals
reproved in broken English:
“We must not anger. We must make love.”

And how your heart—bruised but adored—
made so much love in those months:
love and love and love and love.

For more poems and stories, go to jackieleasommers.com/writer.

Image credit: Erica Murriel Davis

Opus on 1st: Ballad


prompt8She walks the cobbled streets,
thinking of Poe, of Nevermore,
and though he is beside her,
they are not together now.

He takes her hand,
helps her to sit, frees
the guitar and begins to sing.

It brings her back from silence,
from the dark places in which
the mind loves and hates to rest.

The song is the best rescue
this armorless knight can attempt.



When nerves cancelled my plans,
I imagined that another, separate me
made the drive to St. Paul.

My other me entered the room with the
the more-important-than-things-really-are candles.
My other me was confident; her cheeks were flushed.
She made conversation; she made you laugh.

Maybe she even found out the truth,
knows things now that this me doesn’t.

And this me resents her surety, is angry
that she didn’t take the chance, take the drive,
take the hand of the boy in St. Paul
instead of the pen to write this jealous poem.

writer girl

Wendy Darling


You know it would have never worked.

Still, you remember his wild eyes
the night he showed you London
in a way you’d never seen.

The stars meant things to him,
especially the second to the right.

And you wanted him to love you
enough to leave, but you didn’t
love him enough
to stay.

The ground feels cold—
but solid—
beneath your quiet feet.

Wendy and Peter




Wringing the Rubik’s cube for a solution,
gentle skill reconciles nine tiny blue squares to become a face
segregated from the greens, reds, and yellows.
Your nimble fingers work salvation into the block
then offer it to me, a finished product fallen to my lap.
Music plays, people talk, we tell stories—life continues—
as I confuse the cube into madness and return it again.