Life, Love, Poetry, Writing


Why must you be a child all the time?

With those dark, knowing eyes

and just-five-more-minutes-please smile.

Can’t you see that I’m tired?

I don’t have the time to play with you.

Maybe Tanya and Tina let you get away with it

but I’m not one of your little friends.

Yet you still try to sneak your way into my bed

When will you outgrow this phase?

Creeping fingers caught in the cookie jar and all my

spilled milk.

‘Mama, how much longer you gonna make me wait?’

You know I hate it when you call me mama.

I don’t have the time to nurse you, burp you, or change you.


— Janine Serioux

Life, Love, Poetry, Writing


One evening I lay in the bathtub and give birth to myself. near drowning in a pool of a lifetime of my mother’s tears; purified and desalinated, strained through the marrow of my grandmother’s bones, with a drop of my father’s blood, the water chilled by his distance. hands strange and familiar come from surprising distance to rub my shoulders raw with encouragement and rejection. my lover’s fingers curl playfully around my throat and gently push my head under water but I struggle to the surface every time and breathe anew. slow and steady like they said to. my distended belly bobs, sweet amorphous cumulus. Every gasp ragged with indecision and humbling fear. I will carry this sense to term.

Life, Love, Poetry, Writing


When he was wrong
(which was more often than not)
He turned my lap into an alter,
Tonguing out his prayers of gratitude
For my mercy and grace.
He thanked me for my constancy;
That I did not forsake him,
Though he was undeserving
And for forgiving his sins,
While knowing he would sin again.
I heard his prayers
With the serenity of the ocean
And stroking his head,
Answered in the one language he could not understand
is mine.”

Life, Love, Poetry, Writing


There was a time when I split my veins for you and asked “what else do you want?”

Blood wasn’t enough;

Nerves, muscles too.

I stifled my screams and carved a smile from my horrors

And gave

And faded

And still you hungered.

Cracked my bones with you sharp teeth,

Honed on my martyrdom.

You grew fat from the marrow.

What else can you take, now that you have consumed all that is carnal

And I am a deathless soul?

– Janine Serioux


Life, Love, Poetry, Writing


The white whiskers that pepper your beard grow like feathers.

I had plans for them.

One evening I would have pulled your head onto my lap and brushed your face until you fell so far in sleep you would have dreamed you loved me for my patience and oblivion.

What’s that saying about sleeping dogs?

(Let them lie.)

I never wanted to upset you, my pet.

I’d touch your lips while you slept, my heart stammering an eager, fearful prayer. Maybe your subconscious might have a conscience and the truth would slip.

You never told me, but still, I know.

You left that weighted knowledge on my chest; heavy enough to crush all my unrefined hopes to certain doubt.

I wait for you to relieve me but you have flown.


– Janine Serioux