three poems

by Enana Jacob

Counting Limbs

Summer swells and ripens, the

way only August days

know how to do.

Time like honey

drips lazily, stickily;

jazz in the distance,

a song I once saw tattooed

on a stranger’s hand.

A priest in robes shaking

the hand of a homeless man,

a white dog in a baby carrier,

street art vendors and

frazzled pink hair.

These are beacons of summer,

or so it seems to me now.

The heat reaches the unpleasant

heaviness that so often arrives

in New York. There are times

I feel so certain of my own

misery, and this,

my friend,

is one of them. My mind turns,

again, towards insects; towards

prickly legs and webs and unconventional

bodies.

Fruit flies and ants and

wasps and mosquitoes

and fuzzy little bees, the kind

you’re not allowed to kill.

The nuisances of summer, of sun, of

flowers and sweet fruit and outdoor

barbeques that bother the neighbors,

but not enough to stop them from

having their own; of sunscreen and

juice down your chin and gourmand

perfumes.

My mind turns,

again, towards the centipede in the kitchen sink.

In a slew of profanities it was

down the drain and crushed,

disposal-blades spinning, singing,

screeching,

and then it was gone, and the

guilt came stalking in.

I return to it, again and again.

Its legs, so many;

my disgust. Its gruesome,

unfair end.

What else could I have done?

A million things, or at least

twenty, maybe a few

involving paper and cups and opening

the sliding door, letting it walk free—

with all those legs, my god—

back into the world

it came from,

relieved from the alien world

it entered almost certainly

by mistake.

None of these things came to mind,

not in the moment.

A survival instinct of sorts, but

pathetic, really, when the poor thing

could do me no real harm

beyond scaring me, which it’s

succeeded in over and over again.

Even in memory my skin crawls at

the imagined sight of the thing, and

what a mess, I’ve decided, to feel fear

but not have the strength

to do anything

kind about it.

Summer passes with many more of these

pseudo-philosophies,

little things made huge by the

kaleidoscope of summer sun.

The light bends and burns;

with a well-placed mirror you could

set an anthill on fire:

Pompeii in miniature,

catastrophe to scale.

Now nighttime comes slowly,

a little sooner each night.

When autumn comes in earnest,

which it must do,

even the air will learn to bite.

For now, my thoughts feel

miniscule

though many-legged, prickly-bodied,

oddly colored and lightning-fast,

all just so very

harmless, except for the fear.

When the sun is down,

I count my limbs and hope

for kindness from the things

that are much bigger than me.

I hope that they can do the

things I can’t, that they will

be gentle where

I once have been

cruel. Maybe

it’s too much to ask,

but in the end,

I ask for it anyway.

Five o’Clock

Phrases borrowed from Gil, Bob, and Nina

A brutal world will make you

feel it: anger like oil spitting in a pot,

but five o’clock rolls around some time,

doesn’t it, and it’s gotta be five o’clock somewhere.

You punch out and

you’ve got to get home now, I know, and

the anger’s there, the revolution is brewing, but

now the dishes need washing, and

the laundry needs doing.

And well, after all,

there’s still food, enough to dirty the dishes, and

there’s still work, enough to soil your clothes,

and the money ain’t good and it sure as hell ain’t fair, but

it keeps the roof standing.

So what’s one more night in

bliss.

The TV glows on your dinner, a halo,

telling you civilians have been shot and bombed,

murdered and raped and cut to pieces where they stood.

But no one was behind the trigger, god no, and

who could’ve pressed that big red button? And

the TV tells you lives are lost but no one is killed,

and it tells you war is war is war is war, and it tells you

genocide is a dirty, dirty word.

You eat your dinner and those words slide

like honey down your throat, and your

stomach feels good now, doesn’t it,

now that the acid is gone.

The TV tells you that thy neighbor is evil,

thy neighbor is out to get you. The TV

tells you that thy neighbor thinks you’re an

idiot, go get ‘em, and

thy neighbor’s life is an

infringement on your own. The TV tells you

some things just aren’t natural, and it tells you

that this country

must be

saved.

It’s nice to think, isn’t it. That enemies

are simple, and they’re right beside you,

and all you must do is

what the man tells you to,

and you

will be

saved.

But the acid is coming back up,

do you feel it?

Does your

stomach

churn?

Well I’ll tell you this,

and listen closely,

Gil* said it best: the revolution will not be televised,

brother,

so before the spit dries on the oppressor’s boot,

get up. Some fools will never

learn to wash their tongues

of the flavor. Get up.

Listen to the decades that have gone by, and

the wisdom the years have earned

like callouses. Get up.

It’s your turn now, so stretch while you’re able, because

the revolution will put you in the driver’s seat.

Remember that for all those men with their fingers

in every gory pie, made metallic by blood and

coin and sword, know that Bob* sure was right:

all the money they’ve made

will never buy back their souls, no, and this too:

they ain’t worth the blood

that runs in their veins,

and god knows it ain’t theirs that spills.

God knows only kids who live wrong, act wrong,

choose wrong, are born wrong,

learn the shade of red that flows

inside them, and boy, isn’t it

a blessing. They get to learn something the

rest of us do not: how sharp and bright

those blades are up close. A shame

they won’t get to tell us.

And when you feel that bile come back up,

because you will, oh yes you will,

and when you think,

my country wouldn’t, and my people wouldn’t, and my world wouldn’t,

I beg you,

ask yourself: who told you so?

and I beg you,

ask yourself:

why might they need you to believe them?

I’ll tell you this: that Nina* had it right, too.

This whole country is

full of lies, and: you told me to wash and clean

my ears and talk real fine just like a lady,

but you can be clean or dirty or quiet or loud

and none of it will absolve you.

It’s an empty game, you’ll learn, and there

isn’t really a leash around your neck.

Too crude, measures like that;

they invite the mind to imagine

slipping loose, so,

instead, they’ll have you

chase your own tail as long as you

are willing to, because

it’ll give them what they need:

fields and fields of freedom, while you

stay in your

place.

Look up.

Don’t wait for clean dishes or washed clothing,

for paid or unpaid bills.

Yes, it’s five o’clock somewhere,

but here, right here, is the dawn,

persistent.

Hold onto that anger, it’ll serve you.

The morning is here, and there are

people to wake, and yes,

there is work to be done,

so do it.

*Gil Scott-Heron, “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised”

*Bob Dylan, “Masters of War”

*Nina Simone, “Mississippi Goddam”

Anywhere, Anything

It’s dark enough that through

blurring streetlights and the

greasy reflection of the glass,

this town could be anywhere;

this could be anything.

The window becomes a half-way mirror:

through it, the houses smudge into

the reflections of the bus seats, the

street across the road shares its sidewalk with

the one beside me.

There are no harsh lines, no finished edges,

no decisions to be made between here

and there. This could be anywhere, anything, and

this could almost be home, if I squint a little harder.

This could be my way back from school,

there could be dinner waiting for me, warm on

an old china plate, there could be someone

waiting to ask me what

I learned today. I could be every age and

none at all, in this strange in-between world

where the lights melt and

flare and sway.

If I step off the bus now, if I roll out while

the wheels still move, maybe

this dream-logic will

follow me home. I will be here and there

at once,

I will watch my life and live it too, no decisions

to be made, no paths to choose;

they’ll all blur into one, reflect and re-reflect

and turn dark streets magic, they’ll turn this

somewhere, this something, into

everything, anywhere, anything, and

this is what I want:

everything, anywhere, anything.

Photo of Enana Jacob

BIO: Enana Jacob is a Chicago-based writer whose work has been published in Mistake House Magazine, LOGOS Art and Literature Journal, and DuFrank Lit. She is a graduate of the Yale Summer Writers’ Workshop and the New York State Summer Writers Institute. Enana is the former Editor-in-Chief of LOGOS Art and Literature Journal and former Staff Writer at the Campus Times. She is the 1st Place winner of the 2025 University of Rochester Dean’s Prize for Creative Writing in Drama, and winner of the Mistake House Issue 10 Editor’s Choice for Fiction. Her play A Little Grace premiered in 2025 as part of the Todd Theater 22nd Annual One Act New Play Festival. She is a graduate of the University of Rochester. Enana writes fiction, poetry, music, screenplays, stage plays, and anything else that makes her feel something. She hopes to write pieces that make others feel something, too. @enanaj.docx