No no no. Not clapping
yet. Not heart broken pout
upon fist making masterpiece
of profile. Faces for cameos. Flung
back into bed leaden, so heavy
the ache. But passing
fast. Capable of hurting
much and many, finding it funny.
Where were we? Laughing
at a breakable clasp, how dare it
try to close us. Attentive
as a devil to the sensual.
Oh, we can flare and dance
ourselves, deploy talismanic
head tilts, knowing intelligence
is largely still. Listening?
Oh, sure. It doesn’t pain, the raucous
swallowing, a typist’s talent
for noting such things. But when
it drops so do we. Then comes a poise
like sleep. Until our haircuts hit
the pillow, we won’t know we’ve held
our breath. Yes
yes yes. There’s looking
back and there’s what it is.
Jessie Jones is the author of one poetry collection, The Fool, which was published in 2020 with icehouse poetry, and was shortlisted for the Raymond Souster Award and a finalist for the A.M. Klein Prize for Poetry. She grew up in the prairies and now lives in Montreal.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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