These three poems by Jessica Zarrillo provide an intimate examination of grief and its pervasive ripples through the lens of mental illness…
by: Jessica Zarrillo
July 22nd
The body of my mother turns
…58 59 60 61 62 6364 today
under six feet of soil, in her plot
at the end of a roundabout in a
cemetery that floods, tucked
ceremoniously away inside her
beautiful casket trimmed with
rose gold and ruin.
I remember her spending weeks
before her birthday filled with
dread every year, always crying
like she was determined to
drown something.
I inherit the tradition of dreading
nights in late July and crying hard
on the 22nd, but I don’t visit the
spot where she rests. I ask Google
what an embalmed body would
look like after a decade, reveling
in how little I really remember of
the details of her face.
Glory / Grandiose
Self-growth comes only after self-strangulation,
or so I tell myself. It takes an eternity with toes
planted in sand to learn I am both sides of a
double-edged sword; my own hard-earned stability
and my own forged-through-fire chaos.
My feet are no longer plastered in cement or
scrambling to tiptoe over stained glass memories
from a disjointed upbringing. Now, I lace winged
sandals ready to herald gods, and I recognize
agelessness in my reflection, my smile lines a deadly
precursor to aggression if I choose them to be.
I’ll make it my job to conduct worthy souls
to the afterlife in symphony while swallowing
the others for fun.
Jellybean Grief
I am begging you for meaning
in my sleep but you just keep
handing me jellybeans. I’ve
finally realized I’m grieving
the thing underneath the thing,
having dreams that make me
quake and wake you violently,
and you’re already sick from
sugar and lockjaw. Did you vomit
from all that candy, or is your
belly still unsettled from those
bedtime sugarcoated half-truths?
Did you mean what you said
when you used the word “regret”,
or am I reading too much
into the pesky gap between
the platform and the train,
hazard yellow, that reminds me
so much of your front teeth?
It might be easier to figure out
if you’d quit snarling for a minute.
Jessica Zarrillo is a writer and artist living in New York. She earned her Bachelor’s from Rutgers University in Philosophy, Communications, and Psychology. By day, she works in marketing; by night, she plays video games and laments. Her work can be found in the Starcrossed Poetry Anthology, among a number of other zines and publications. Find her on Instagram @SourNothings or visit her website at jesszarr.com.
