Abriana Jetté
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Coincidence, or?

Who do you know who is desperate to live?
You don’t see the ghosts, but I do. The head
opens. Fog denses. In one asthmatic breath
the quiddity of time recoils. A thought that keeps
me going is the impossibility of an ancient leaf,
how roots centuries deep continue to produce
something new. Really, though, what’s new?
In a different poem, mom became grandma
not because they are the same person but because
I am. That’s not new, but old. Dad used to ask
“what’s doing” instead of “what’s new?” A Brooklyn
thing, maybe. Special combo of what’s new &
how you doing. The fathers on the block all used
to call one another “Moey” even though that wasn’t
anyone’s name. Their names were Charlie, Dave, and
Dolor. “Hey Moey what’s doin” the olly olly oxen free
of Gerritsen Beach. “Hey Moey what’s doin” Dave
would say from his porch to Dad and they’d chat
and crack open a can of beer as they grilled.
“What’s doin”-- I used to hear it all the time,
but no one says “what’s doin?” in their poems.
I’m desperate to get out. To do something new.
But not like Charlie who used a gun or Dad who used
liquor not like anyone I know because that would be old
and doing something new means new things to be doing
means what’s doing is what’s new. One year,
when everyone was still alive, a young couple
moved across the street. Dad, Dave and Charlie
threw a welcome party. You can imagine how
their cheers started to raucously grow when,
wouldn’t you know, the new neighbor extended
his hand and introduced himself as Mo.
Dolor, I

I can’t say my mother
didn’t warn me. One night
I sat on the corner of the tub
as she ran a bath. Lavender
warmed the air. She told me
no she begged me to stop

indulging the habit. Her hand
held mine. I looked her
in the eyes and shook my
head, but not in the way she
wanted. Uncle Bruce told me
Dad never had a chance.

My grandmother burnt
herself to death. I’ve never
called her that, grandmother,
always my father’s mother. I
never met her, but from pictures
it’s clear we share the same legs.
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My grandmother burnt herself
to death from a lit cigarette and
drunken stupor. My father got there
too late. My father fell to his death
from a drunken stupor. His name
was Dolor. Mom fears I have his fate.
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Abriana Jetté is an internationally published writer and educator whose work has been featured in Best New Poets 2022, Teachers & Writers Magazine, River Teeth, PLUME, and more. In 2023, Abriana received a Finalist Award from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts, and their work has also been supported by the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley, the Sewanee Writers' Conference, the Southampton Writers Conference, and more.

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