by JSP Jacobs
This is where we walk slowly
My arm linked in yours
The park slipcovered in rain
Bare trees gone black with crows.
Your hair is fading
To the color of a clouded fish eye
You are made of crystal and syntax and
I’m not sure about me.
I have learned to read your posture
Your hand signals for gravity, for eternity
The meaning of the space beneath the table
Where our knees don’t touch
Which is to say I know both our hearts
Are dead things dredged up to die again
The best parts of us build a church, The worst parts
trail after this nation of birds
Hollow bones aching with expectation.
JSP Jacobs lives and writes between Huntington Beach, California and Boise, Idaho. Her work has appeared in SP CE, Cold Drill, Boise City Revue, and Fusion Magazine. She is a graduate of the writing program at Boise State University and the Tin House Writers Workshop.