Two Poems (Dr. Sarah Jefferis)
Dr. Sarah Jefferis
What My Father Michael Gave Me In Virginia
I.
votive candles, a bowl to wash my feet
twenties, my first driving lesson
a sea monster seagulls from the James
Olive Garden leftovers
a caged bird the Psalms
a pickle bin a checking account
a concussion from a tent pole
Vacation Bible School The “Love Shack”
an obtrusive sandbar rug burn
Óscar Romero the AIDS Quilt
turquoise bracelets cheese sandwiches
Emily Dickinson Montblanc’s
rags to wipe kneelers’ oxen at the gate
Victoria’s Secret panties tickets to Missoula, Montana
red clay tabletop gravestones
a high pulpit with a sounding board
my first sermon the gnostic gospels
John D. Rockefeller Cotesworth Lewis
The oldest hospital in Virginia peach lipstick
the Tarpley Bell from 1761 Days Inn keys
the Book of Common Prayer gas money
a canopy over the governor’s pew Stockholm
Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds
James Blair William Archer Rutherfoord Goodwin
President Roosevelt's bronze lectern
Angel’s right foot in the Old World with the British lion
The left foot in the New World near the Americas
King Edward’s Bible
Denny’s all you can eat my first job in a nursery
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
a set of pans college tuition
horse shit and drumsticks the Jamestown Baptismal font
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
heels to click on the dead stone
boxes of vegetable lo mein mute fog
keys to trespassing
myself a subscription to all the blue pills
I could swallow
II.
In how many tongues was I taught to say help yourself
How many times have I closed my eyes to not watch all the ways you have
And if I had kept them open, could I have stopped you
How many altars have I laid my legs upon, my neck
How many hours have I begged for deliverance
How many tongues was I taught to say help yourself
How many tongues was I taught
How many tongues was I
How many tongues
How many
How
This time
when he comes in
I will
not just roll
over this time, I will not
claw at the wall
will not hold
my breath will not make
myself small this time
I will call out mama
your husband is here
did you lose him
and she will stumble
out of her cave with
her one good eye
and stand up
this time, I will
have all my limbs
this time I will be
ready and stab his fat
hairy arm with my lefty scissors
the ones Ms. Underwood gave me
when I finally arrived in third grade
with clean hair and brushed teeth
after the lice fell on my plastic toothbrush;
if I jab these scissors deep enough
in the chamber, it will give
me time to roll—off
the bed and slide under it
and out the window
and then he can never
beat me with a T-square
never take my photo
after his slimy kiss
never demand a root beer float
in a Hardees glass
and to sit with him to watch
reruns of M.A.S.H
this time I will
I will not
look back no matter
how loud he calls me girl.
Copyright Credit: Dr. Sarah Jefferis, “What My Father Michael Gave Me In Virginia" and "This time" from Survival & Beyond, Issue 3 / Summer 2025 (Safe Passage, 2025). Copyright © 2025 by Safe Passage. Reprinted with the permission of the author.