by Everett Jones
My skateboard throws me off, front wheels
caught on a rock in the shallow
end. My knees kiss pavement and instinct shuts
my eyes before I glide
a fingertip through the sting. When I bring it
to my lips and taste lukewarm
iron, I recall I’m here to forget
you—to pierce my bored
skin in caustic air and fill
that air with noise. I need sharpness—but not
the kind where scabs form overnight
and heal. The real prick is the ring
of your voice in my head, looped
and rewound—I wish it were
confined to cassette or MP3, something
I could pause or throw away, but you’re not this kind
of machine. Last I felt, your lips were a staple
-gun for pinning soft promises
to the side of my neck. You know
they’ll never reach my ears that way.
Everett Jones is a Maryland writer who recently graduated from Salisbury University. His poems have appeared in Hunger Mountain, The Shore, The Inflectionist Review, and elsewhere. He is an editor for 149 Review. Outside of the writing world, he is a multi-instrumentalist with a love for punk music.
Hawaii Pacific Review 