Jeanne Julian
Self-portrait as constellation
Usually lurking below your horizon, I-wish-I-may-wish-I-might catch your eye. You need to make an effort to find me, even when I do rise above upstart city-glow. But connect the dots—my faint, ancient stars—and you’ll soon discern my outline. In some cultures, a diva wielding a tennis racquet. In others, a crone offering a platter of freshly baked sugar cookies. Start by locating Rigel, in the left foot of lazy Orion. From there, gaze upward. You’ll see the star Avoirdupois marking my middle—with a magnitude brighter than Virgo’s brightest—ha! Above that, Greylock, Cataract, and Rhytid, haloing my head. Lower, trace the sprinkling of twinkles forming torso and legs (Titanium, the dimmest, figures in the Legend of the Knee Replacement), and leading to Revlon, the red dwarf of my toenail. From where you are, these luminous waypoints surround an apparently empty black hole. But only because you’re stuck in place and time. Marvels swirl within, behind, my outer space: fecund nebulae, magnetic explosions. I contain multitudes—as Whitman said, rather presumptuously, at age 36. I’ve been around the cosmic block. Billions of years. Remember: you’re late to my light: looking up, you’re looking back. Old is relative. And I’ve never felt better.
Note: This poem was first published by Stanza, the newsletter of the Maine Poetry Society, after winning first place in the Society’s 2025 poetry contest.
They Never Said
They never said there was a chance
that I’d be what’s purportedly
an alcoholic. I?
The parties made me nice
and shiny. There was no indication
I might be twice divorced, alone,
with kids still finding
their way when nearing 40,
heedless of me until
there’s a bill to pay. Don’t get me
wrong, I’m happy to. But I’m not
as flush as I once was. They never said
my mother could be dead
at an age younger than I am now.
I’m rather glad she cannot see
this blurry denouement, this ebbing.
She had a lot of dignity.
They never said those lifelong
friendships can go awry.
My phone calls go unanswered.
I’m not sure why.
They never said I’d have to try
to get around with no car
after the accident. Absurd.
They never said the pills that kill
the pain keep nagging you to tighten
their throttlehold on your brain.
They make you feel unclean.
They never said one might forget
those heartfelt songs. I mean,
I remember them, I just don’t sing.
I bet they never said
she’ll wind up like the ones
who never had a chance,
the ones who started
with nothing.
Jeanne Julian is author of Like the O in Hope and two chapbooks. Her poems have won awards from Reed Magazine, Comstock Review, I-70 Review, and Naugatuck River Review. Her book reviews appear in Main Street Rag. She maintains a compendium of quotations for writers on her web site. www.jeannejulian.com
