it’s all in the journey, well usually it is I think, and this little gem of a slender poem is such a journey, and I’m so grateful to be invited in. Happy/sad/happy poem. Thank you for it
Mik Grantham’s Jessica is a whispered portrait of unnoticed tenderness. What’s most human here is the quiet ache of being seen and unseen at once the woman in the apron, nameless yet constant, dragging tables across concrete while saving cookies for a girl who never remembers her name. The poem doesn’t ask for pity; it offers presence. Jessica, with her wide eyes and endless requests, becomes a kind of ritual an echo of need, a breeze that never comes. And beneath the repetition, there’s longing: not for recognition, but for shared silence, for a moment of sunlit grace beneath the kumquat tree. Not alone. With you.
Mik Grantham’s Jessica is a poem of quiet devotion an ode to unnoticed tenderness and the ache of being seen but unnamed. What’s most human here is the speaker’s endurance: the apron, the metal tables, the cookies saved from yesterday, all carried with a kind of sacred fatigue. Jessica, wide-eyed and forgetful, becomes both burden and balm. The poem doesn’t ask for pity it offers presence. Beneath the repetition, beneath the heat, there’s a longing not for recognition, but for companionship. To share a bench. A breeze. A sandwich. Not alone. The final gesture a smile, a sweep, a soft “yeah” is where the heart lives.
it’s all in the journey, well usually it is I think, and this little gem of a slender poem is such a journey, and I’m so grateful to be invited in. Happy/sad/happy poem. Thank you for it
This is so beautiful. Wow. Insane. Well done
Mik Grantham’s Jessica is a whispered portrait of unnoticed tenderness. What’s most human here is the quiet ache of being seen and unseen at once the woman in the apron, nameless yet constant, dragging tables across concrete while saving cookies for a girl who never remembers her name. The poem doesn’t ask for pity; it offers presence. Jessica, with her wide eyes and endless requests, becomes a kind of ritual an echo of need, a breeze that never comes. And beneath the repetition, there’s longing: not for recognition, but for shared silence, for a moment of sunlit grace beneath the kumquat tree. Not alone. With you.
Hmmmm. I feel annoyed by Jessica.
Mik Grantham’s Jessica is a poem of quiet devotion an ode to unnoticed tenderness and the ache of being seen but unnamed. What’s most human here is the speaker’s endurance: the apron, the metal tables, the cookies saved from yesterday, all carried with a kind of sacred fatigue. Jessica, wide-eyed and forgetful, becomes both burden and balm. The poem doesn’t ask for pity it offers presence. Beneath the repetition, beneath the heat, there’s a longing not for recognition, but for companionship. To share a bench. A breeze. A sandwich. Not alone. The final gesture a smile, a sweep, a soft “yeah” is where the heart lives.