Simone John-Vanderpool is about to begin her second year as an English Lectrice at the University of Picardie Jules Vernes. She received her BA/MA in Psychology and French from Wesleyan University, and has been teaching English in France since the fall of 2020. Her lifelong curiosity about the human condition and the nature of empathy naturally led her to develop a passion for psychology and of course, the world of literature. Simone is relatively new to the poetry scene, but has been published in The Foundationalist in 2018 and 2020. 

Over the years, Simone has also been quite active in the world of public health. As the Wellness Intern for the Office of Health Education at Wesleyan University from 2017-2020, she facilitated workshops ranging from sexual health to sleep hygiene, and worked with a team of interns and PHAs to develop relevant health education outreach events and campaigns. In 2020, she received the Wesleyan Health Education Prize. She now also works part-time with Beacon Public Health, a Black-owned public health consulting company focused on advancing BIPOC health equity. 

Alongside writing, Simone enjoys practicing roller derby and running along the Somme in her free time.

I should have waited

Was not what I was thinking that morning
bare legs straddling the sheets of another
less-than stranger. Sunlight crawling in through the crack 
under the door. The navy curtains were
heavy and drawn. His smell lingering there
on my skin. I was alone, and I smiled.
That night, as I leapt off the pedestal,
What the hell, I’m grown, were my exact thoughts.

My 11 year old cousin teaches me about death

We are on the lake in Pennsylvania.
The water is a dark, silent bluish-green, 
impenetrable. Her mother trusts me
on that kayak with her only daughter.
From afar she looks like she’s not watching. 
I lean in, my cousin’s small eyes
squinting at the sunlight, and whisper: 
Would you ever want to be immortal? 

Her answer is quick, and I am let down.
Then, she’s looking at me as if I am
really brainless. I was there ten years ago
at her father’s funeral in DC.
I had met the man. Wiry and wild
and full of life. I’d held the baby
not yet one, and eaten his wife’s dinner.
And heard the story about her eyes.
How they glanced at him across a campus street. 
How he never wanted to be out
of their sight. How he knew. Did I forget?
What for my cousin could never be forgotten
or ever be remembered? Yes, of course.
She spoke of heaven as if she’d seen it
already. And I, having been there, still
scarcely believed it.

So how do you still believe?

For me, God is a need, most of the time.
And a want, some of the time.
Like that glass of water when you first wake up. 
You know that you won’t die if you don’t drink, 
but still you close your eyes. Take a sip.