Jeannie Prinsen

by Jeannie Prinsen

when I reach for it, fumbling, long before dawn.
they crackle in a blackness my eyes have not yet
adjusted to. no comforting shapes of chair, table,
dresser, so I go by feel, by the plush sizzle and
sputter between my fingers. synthetic fireflies
are surprisingly good company in the lonely
hours. don’t we all grope in the dark for a wink
of light, however dry and cold, for a soft
place to touch, as the blanket of night pulls
back, filling the room with stars.

Jeannie Prinsen lives with her husband, daughter, and son in Kingston, Ontario, where she works as a copyeditor for a news organization. Her writing has appeared in Dust Poetry, Relief Journal, and elsewhere. Find her online at jeannieprinsen.substack.com and jeannieprinsen.bsky.social. 

by Jeannie Prinsen

No church is big enough to contain
your relationship with Jesus, you said.
In that Gothic cathedral, did you belly

the arches like a superhero inflatable, the Hulk
bursting his undersized shirt? Did worshippers,
pinched by your piety, shrink to the edge

of the nave, did the bishop shoulder the sacristy
door as it strained against your devotion? No
mustard seed would do — you always claimed

a communion far more rarefied.
I believed it, me of little faith, back when
we were a thing worthy of saving.

Cracking the dome, you floated free and
staggered skyward, tethers trailing. You knew
you’d outgrow us all. I miss you, still

you get smaller and
smaller the higher
you fly.

Jeannie Prinsen lives with her husband, daughter, and son in Kingston, Ontario, where she is a copy editor for a local news organization. Her writing has appeared in Barren, Relief, Dust Poetry, and elsewhere. She can be found on Twitter/X at @JeanniePrinsen and Instagram at @jeannieprinsen.

by Jeannie Prinsen

I hate winter rain, how it soaks
dirty snow heavy, sluices beneath ice
dams at the curb, how it seeps,
weighs. Get used to it, they say,
this is the future, no more
old-fashioned winters. As though
nostalgia for childhood’s red-
cheeked seasons oppresses me, not
the inexorable slide into melt,
humans glaciering slow
toward refuge, beasts foraging
in bewilderment while we choose
drowning, calling it progress, moving afloe
across a sea of our own design.

Jeannie Prinsen lives with her husband, daughter, and son in Kingston, Ontario, where she is a copy editor for a local news organization. Her writing has appeared in Barren, Relief, Dust Poetry, and elsewhere. She can be found on Twitter at @JeanniePrinsen and Instagram at @jeannieprinsen.