Poetry
Opened
Jayce Elliott
issue four
The flower is unfolding around bodies,
receiving the crest-brimmed light
so much darker
and deeper. When wide open, could I
crawl inside and lie down? Sink deep
so many limbs
into soft indigo seams, molding stubborn
Dust into thin-textured twine elastics
of dead things.
I play a part in the dirt, strung round long
and embosomed to this hand at work,
so intimately pitched
that my own fingers twitch with. sharp
and pulling my skin from the ugly knuckles,
kicking up dust.
I can be the bees that take them close and dig
pretty enough to say, “I think I’ll try another,”
as a means
of moving on. But the sultry taste never scrubs
off your tongue. It’s one of those things
for safe-keeping.
I figured I’d try some new seasons on for size,
but the exit wound of September in Japan
looks just like
the ichor dripping down April. Yes, I know these too.
Not that I always love them, or revel in the cold.
You opened up,
not because you love the offering before you,
but that you love to receive.
About the Author
Jayce Elliott is a loafer and landscaper in the Northeast where he spends more time outside than in. His poetry appears in New Feathers Anthology, Last Leaves Magazine, The Bridge Journal, where he was also an Editor, and elsewhere, including many closet bookshelves, under dust mites and on desks.
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