there are two worlds.
dearest, like in a pharmaceutical ad
at least or was
of the world but only sometimes rock your little boat for every
stolen bicycle spin a wheel in the sky
how to get
<sip> from here ⎮sub⎮ ⎮or⎮ continent
to: and back berrily, berrily grab
a branch and pull
We are talking about who looks like
who again (although he looks most like me and I am nobody's mother yet) and why
this is a compelling argument in one child's favor.
You were lucky, I thought. You
had a trellis, a reason for rose feed, two
children, small, and time off. And this reasoning
was a linear thing, as if first travelling to Milan and then happening upon and then lining up for an
antique car show around the piazza del duomo. I suddenly wanted to say I no longer tolerate flower
parades or the infinity of bulbs. That a ferrari eats road, that
I ached to tolerate jasmine and statues that moved with the light sources, arguing with the sky. That I
had seen a man get up and carry his flayed skin home.
Jennifer Arcuni‘s writing has appeared in various mediums and literary publications, including Xantippe and Bateau. She received her MFA from Saint Mary’s College of California. She is currently a poetry editor for the journal Versal, where poems of hers have previously appeared. Originally a US east-coaster, she found herself at home in the Netherlands for many years. Jennifer now lives and writes in Northern California.