rosemary bough in breeze
that night in the alkali-dusty tent the forest’s moon lit
hatchwork harsh white / my teeth chattering hands trembling
stars in our
at & in us / secret / out from the broken jar
of our original body / quick while we’re both here
tell me an
mine: sacked out G. & E. & me after a week backcountry
frightened & happy mammals on a nowhere hill twenty-five miles to Umatilla
before a fire blown
the snowline briefly blue across the Cascades / eating
bag-bottom cashew crumbles salmon skin pesto oil & Clif bars
as the stars swung
the earth is my footstool what kind of house can you build for me / like the tap-tap-
crunch on the eggshell inner membrane clinging /
thank you to
the please
remove
your cash past
past
ivy
argyling the
dumpster’s
volta
small
wings
big
feet
could I
be
completed and
not know the
line
the newspaper
vendor’s
sales-
cadence
soothes
to sense
toward what
hob-
bled
aviary
in
view
of
glad-
ness’s
strand-
work
ringing
love not
me
but
what body ever
sacred or pertinent or even clear / under a spatter of grass clippings
one flower powder-purple / the duration of your skin
from throat to shoulder / no
pleasure & pain have over me / as spring day’s skirt drags
& my dendrites crackle from deep in the over- taking stillness of the dead /
your folks said
who told how years ago she’d gone hiking backcountry
brought a friend brought her rifle in case / scaling a rock wall
slick with moss
twenty feet & smashed his knee / she left him her gun & food &
ran frantic for the village returned 8 hours later with
two locals & a stretcher
immobile & swarmed by a roving 10,000-strong colony
of flesh-eating army ants he’d killed himself
single shot
absolutely literal: it’s what you do when the pain can no
longer be borne / so I’m trying to cope with-
out righteousness /
the death of all I know & all it’s possible I’ll make a change
of light & park crowds clear out / a thousand times
worse than the
the punishments inflicted by the good / & in our nation’s Chanel-scented
high-rise mausoleums & desiccated palm gardens & copper-stripped
sock factories
flecked with maroon
with fright & at a touch of speed-dial or a thinning in the mutter
of their motion-tracking lasers summon uniforms–people I mean–so
numbed
that to beat & belittle shoot & surveil is their pleasure /
to protect us / it’s OK look at his ropy limbs
& his snowy-ballfield eyes /
every so often a police officer is shot to death on the job
or a Blackwater employee is burned in his Land Cruiser mutilated
by a hundred eager instruments
little voice in me begins the tally of answering
unrecorded nightstick beatings & interrogation room rapes
Predator drones
to restore the intricate patternwork of our righteousness
& might / to curse is not immoral /
but
where can
we go
to strike
the same
notes face
after face
new
meek
fop of a
friend after
new
blast of
lawless
maple
mountain’s
slumbering
water-
mark
fades
needletip
vines
crude after-
noon
assemblies of
lupine
touch my
throat
gingerly and the
instrument
trembles
sussurant
masses
of
leaves
in the halo of every city
a sort of thunder shake fruit
like fire from certain trees yet even these whose every
moment’s
making law / & a sign I’m told in a surge of baby octopuses
swallowed by thousands / drinking wine
& playing cards when
spewing elements heavier with each stellar generation–
helium from hydrogen carbon or even iron–
& the stuff of us
regathered into heat / the sun is a third-generation star /
windstruck puddle stirring streetlight
—
Jay Aquinas Thompson (he/they) is a poet, essayist, and teacher with recent or forthcoming work in Guesthouse, Interim, Pacifica Literary Review, and Passages North. They’ve been awarded grants and fellowships from the Ragdale Foundation, the Community of Writers, the Sustainable Arts Foundation, and King County 4Culture. They live with their child in Washington state, where they teach creative writing to incarcerated women.