Jesseca Cornelson


You make my brain a mist of fog hoopskirting a mountain.
Pines and firs, a precipice in watercolors,
the idea of death too unfocused and soft to fear.
A long dream of green needles and falling snow,

these grounded clouds frozen now, my mind iced silent.
The fog swallows every idea save itself.
I am swimming in all this gray.

You make my body a soggy field inundated with rain,
each step a lurch and slurp, and my muscles mudden,
slide wetly into sleep. Sleep here, sleep here, sleep anywhere.

My arms, wind beaten limbs I cannot lift.
My skin, as if burned by storm and the bald light
before the storm, untouched but raw.

My eyes, dappled panes of wet glass—
shadows of colors move but never solidify.
Only my ears sharp to sudden cries of carrion birds.

My will is the will of the fallow field to sleep.
Some other day to turn over the earth,
feed dark fermenting dreams to the sun,
set some seed to grow.

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