by Ingrid Marie Jensen
‘Where’ve you been all my life?’
Jack Harris asks with a crooked smile,
both incandescent and terrifying,
that’s real charm along with eyes like
Lake Michigan in a storm and an expensive suit.
he’s somebody special and don’t he know it!
song slides off slick vinyl, filling the air
like a rich perfume or a powerful medicine, heady
with the force of all the things holy
and some that aren’t.
a couple of days later, she finds out
his name isn’t Jack—it’s John Dillinger.
now, Billie has a dozen
lipsticks in metal tubes
like bullet casings, a new
one as soon as the red point
wears smooth, silk stockings
and a snug Persian lamb coat,
dainty high-heeled shoes,
dancing shoes, cake mascara,
the kind you spit in,
and only thing Johnnie won’t
buy her is whiskey, so she steals it.
and that turns him on.
she is drunk a great deal of the time,
which isn’t so long, only half a year—
a fraction of her life, as the days burn
away like tobacco smoke in the wind.
at night she dreams of bobbing in cold, black water
of indeterminable depth, the sky overhead
opening and shutting, like the lense of a camera,
like the jagged mouth of a beast made of metal.
***
Chicago Archives 2021
by Ayme Robinson
Ingrid Marie Jensen is a writer and music journalist. In 2023 and 2024, she was the recipient of Louisiana State University’s Dara Wier Award for Poetry. She is 23.
Ayme Robinson is a writer and artist from Chicago, with a deep interest in urban life and landscapes. Their work explores the intersection of personal experience and the city’s rhythm, capturing both its beauty and complexities. This is their debut publication.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 