Jesse Rice-Evans


I borrow oxy from a crip friend; getting disoriented is my new self-care. It snows and I smoke on the
back porch, hoping for my guts to river subterranean;

Salt water sea cave, find me slick with wanting you, with desperation or
wanting to move but trapped, lure diminished expedition,
leaving each evening, most vulnerable as I leave the house, dropped things mean
muscle relaxers.

Gills hook me to stuff; hope in short supply, an acid bleaching rocks inside my back.
You can monitor me if you wanna but the closer you look the tauter I become, beckoning, volcanic
with tender points, magma full of my blood

despite more life than imaginable; a dangling
artifact of slicker, snottite, gypsum a gallery of giant conical;

I split a xanax, walk home in stars and a cloak of aloneness, which is ok, a valley gestating

a chain of young volcanos walks me home, my hand salting molten, ice spires pristine and
untouchable, trauma unveiled like naked mountain cap


back to contents