Jennifer Crow
Mysteries
I don’t know what blessing we were supposed to coax
from God’s tight fist with our birth or death, sacrifices
made hazy in a landscape of worst-case scenarios
building to an apocalypse of failed prophecies. Forget
agendas: our desires take shape during the worst
season of our lives, and we hope only for numbness
to spread from synapse to synapse until our nerves
melt into protoplasmic goo, a mystery for aliens
to ponder when they arrive on our burnt cinder
of a planet. That’s the best we can dream, here
at the end of most things, to leave questions behind
like progeny, our systems of belief mere bubbles
erupting from the cosmic foam. Throughout life
we put on identities like new shoes, trying to outgrow
our worst memories, only to find they live in us
still, laces double-knotted to keep us tied into
the past until we stumble, fall, become fossil or soil.
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Shy and nocturnal, Jennifer Crow has rarely been photographed in the wild, but it’s rumored she lives near a waterfall in western New York. In the past quarter-century, her work has appeared in many print and electronic venues, including Uncanny, Analog, and anthologies like Along Harrowed Trails and Under Her Skin. A Rhysling Award winner in 2023 for her poem “Harold and the Blood-Red Crayon,” she will have work in upcoming issues of Kaleidotrope and Asimov’s Science Fiction. Those who’d like to know more about her writing can catch up with her on Bluesky: @writerjencrow.bsky.social.
Author’s Backstory/Crafting Elements: Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of identity, both for people in general and for myself in particular. Identity is a vital aspect of our lives, but it’s also malleable. I’ve been discovering that first-hand as I process some childhood trauma, especially with being raised in a high-demand, conservative religion. It’s despairing in tone, because as much as I’d like to hope for a better world, it’s impossible to ignore the forces arrayed against us. Hubris has a way of destroying more than just the ones who fall prey to it.
Editor’s Comments/Image Credit: This sobering poem is difficult to complement with concrete images. Therefore, an abstract image connoting a serious, contemplative mood, one grasping at the darkness: Created and published by Pawel Czerwinski on March 2, 2024 (UTC). Free to use under the Unsplash License