Jess Smith

Memo from the Chancellor, Winter

“This directive is the first step of the Board of Regents’ ongoing implementation of its statutory responsibility to review and oversee curriculum under Senate Bill 37 and related provisions of the Education Code.” – Memorandum RE: Course Content Oversight and Review, Texas Tech University, December 1, 2025

I want to know what you feel at night. I want to know
how still you turn when he touches your cheek. I need


direct eye contact, fingertips along your thighs to measure
the hem of my devotion. I’m interested in your


development. Pedagogic frostbite. Metaphorical
flurries. I want to know why you wake, and rustle, and rise,


and feel moved to sway at your own snowlit window. Why
does the moon mean so much to you? What have you told them


I did? Everyone loves a good he-said, she-said. It’s always so hot
in here. My own mother left right at bedtime; said I was the one


to keep the hearth warm. And here I am, lonely fool, still
holding her old poker. No bedside lamp can mimic


fire’s velvet grip. I’ve grown intimate with imitation. You
better watch out. You better not cry. I was once sure


about the world and its preponderance. I once felt I could say
what I meant. Now, please, will you recite for me? My hand hovers


above your cheek. Are you singing? The fire quiets. Snow
spreads its rumors. Let me be clear: I do love you. I am


sorry. And you of all people should know! Night comes
in one of two ways: tenderly, or like a sniper.

Record

What have you done

with all the footage?

My elastic, wet body

without recourse

nor subtlety. I remember

the fireproof box

you kept under the bed,

protecting hours

of your war recordings.

Is that where

you stash me now?

I never saw you

discard anything

willingly. I hope

you pull the box

from beneath the bed

while your wife sleeps–

and that when you

watch me, all three

of your eyes weep.

Spring Fever

I walk the spring path to your secret house. My fingernails

are azaleas in that they flex red and wither. I am paid to teach

a lexicon I cannot navigate. What I really want to say must raise

its hand and wait. Once I dated a boy who claimed his secret talent

was naming every preposition in rapid, alphabetical succession.

A hysteria of seduction. Like these pale magnolia trees announcing

spring. Have you ever known a stiffer petal? Worse than cheap hotel sheets.

I told that boy that the best prepositions were next to, behind, astride,

and he said that wasn’t how his secret talent worked. The flower

of his face closing like a throat. Even in spring

men suffer. Even in spring the sky withers. I’m so afraid

of boredom. I panic in the certain heat. You say, don’t feel

bad. You say, we’ll be afraid together. I stand on your porch

and shiver. You say come into, you say come onto, you say

come during, before, after. I like you because you demand

my presence. I like you because you stand in your backyard

banging the door knocker of my heart. I like you because none

of your talents are secret to me anymore. I like you

because we’ve both come back from the dead, like daisies,

like dandelions with their two-headed life. We came here

tonight to die of liking each other, to perish while the shadows of spring

stain the sheets. Whoever called it a small death hasn’t lived

against, into, through this. In your rigor mortis fists, crushed

magnolia petals. In your autopsy, my wet eyelashes.

Apologia

I tried being

unapologetic – it seemed

sexy, elegant, French. But I

was too American

and too sorry. What I mean

is, I used to be

in a sorority. I made

so much noise. I kissed men

who would grow up

and destroy

New York City: commercial

real estate brokers,

general counsel,

private contract

military, and even

regular military. I’m sorry

for disrupting

the silence. I forgot

there were other

patrons in this sorry

establishment. I’m sorry

for that night

in the thunderstorm

when you hit my bare

ass with a Bible. Who

would do such

a thing – or rather –

who would allow this

to happen? Why

did you have a Bible

in your car? I shouldn’t

have let you pee

in the street, pee

where you pleased. There

are rules about

sanitation for a reason.

My fingers are never

greasy and my nails

are always red but

I have had

occasion to leave

a mess. If I had

confession, what

would I confess?

A priest is

the number one

person you should

lie to – just a cop

in a dress. I’m sorry

I was the oldest sister.

I’m the kind

of person who

needed an older

sister. My mother

is so loud when

she weeps. I want

to shush her, and for that

I am sorry, but

there are other patrons

in this extended

family. Lately, I let

a lady inject

poison into my face

and I’m sorry for wanting

my face to stay

as it was that night

in the thunderstorm,

damp Bible in your fist

swinging through the fog

like a scythe.

Luke 6:37: Do not

condemn, and you will not

be condemned. Forgive,

and you will be

forgiven. I don’t know how

your car withstood the force

of our gesturing. I don’t

remember how

we agreed to lie

that much, or for

how long. I hope that when

I die people will

describe me as

unapologetic, but I think

more likely they’ll say:

stimulating, troubled, hot

to the touch, boisterous if

they’re putting it

gently. No one minds

a little posthumous

euphemism. Listen,

I can hear

your voice

across the Plains.

I can hear you

demanding that I

apologize. Matthew

1:22: The worse

I am, the more

you ask for.