Juan Wynn
Juan Wynn Jr. (1993-2023) was published in Platform Review in Winter, 2021. He was a poet from New Jersey and previously served as a writing consultant at Bloomfield College. He also taught at Blue Rock School, where he was facilitator of the poetry program. His work has appeared in Platform Review as well as The Banyan Review. Those of us here at ARTS By The People keep Juan’s spirit in our hearts for his family, friends, and community.
A Drive That Doesn’t End With Bullets
You are with your mother, your black mother,
on the way home from a quick run to the bank.
You lean back the front seat & sleep the peace
of an 8-minute ride done a dozen times night or
shine—this time night—until red & blue swirl
across the dark stage & un-curtain your eyelids
to the black & white behind your mother’s van.
Your mind finally arrives to see you’re parked
right outside your house & the street is clear
of any bodies. & though your mother can tell
you’re awake, she doesn’t rewind the tape,
doesn’t speak except to hard whisper Don’t go
outside—her hand on yours undoing the seatbelt
as you try to see the cruiser better, confirming
they’re not here for your neighbors. & then,
a shadow looms behind a flashlight beam.
At your window is Officer 2 & history
has shown he’s not the one to do the talking.
On cue, Officer 1 approaches your mother
& calls attention to broken taillights
you both know about already, his white face
eclipsed in the rearview mirror.
The chapstick between your middle & index
as heavy as the weapon you never want
mistaken in your hands. You want to drop it—
to bow your palms on your knees or press them
against the glass pane but your body tightens,
knows to sit still. Meanwhile, Officer 2 walks
underneath the streetlamp to the front bumper
held with off-colored duct tape & string,
your throat mining to explain the truth
& the now-foolish job your sister did—
& the no-good-reason-now why your mother
allowed this. But he says nothing.
Asking for her papers, Officer 1 says
I’ll let you go with a break, if they’re in order.
He checks them. You check him. Soft jaw,
small face compared to your brown fists—
a thought you don’t want but happens.
Your mother waits until they leave to move.
He was checking my plates.
That’s why he made us wait so long.
You both head inside. All your living intact.
You write the poem. All your living intact.
The Plea
The ghost of everything
named dead in our fridge
settles in our stomachs.
A small turkey perches
on my sleeping lips.
Next to a chicken.
A field of corn.
This barn of a mouth
everything named dead
doesn’t fight to be in.
My dear, please,
this is the closest my body
is to heaven & I am so,
so tired of trying.
Questions and Answers, in No Particular Order
after Sarah Kay
I’ve heard it takes more to save your life.
Are there dreams you’ve given up on?
Anything beyond the shore, I need to be on a boat.
What’s goes first in a homemade first-aid kit?
I gave myself habits I delight in.
What’s your favorite body part?
Transparency.
How much did you swallow?
A soundproof room.
Are you getting enough rest?
I always wear a seatbelt.
Did you apologize?
Yeah, it was my first time in a desert. Cold, under a blue black sky.
Did you learn your lesson?
Some things I like in twos.
Hands
The widowhood effect is the increased probability
a widow or widower will die soon
after their spouse is gone, but not before
facing the tough question,
when was the last time
I held my own hand?
Tonight, each of mine are interlocked
underneath a table
at my favorite diner. I text you,
I think my hands know
when I’m not holding yours. And half-jokingly add,
I think they’re alive.
The next morning, you text me
you woke up holding your own hand
for the first time ever.
And I think to myself, this is how
it begins. How the beating clock inside us
resets to a countdown
no one knows how long
until zero. How love has done its job
if it leaves the skin unfamiliar
and tells the body in the morning
it was hungry all night. Granted,
we’re not married, and I don’t know
what makes a man ready
but if I say I do, then believe
I’m brave enough
for the endings I want.
for M., the first poem, you inspired.