Tonight I love only water more
than you. And you’re so close to being
no more for this world, this world of digits
and liquid crystals and HD. World-wise
and slender. Two legs stretched skyward.
I long for fuzzier days and more darkness.
The industrial days that conceived you,
the rural days that demanded you, the nights
you taught me to be alone. You’re no hood
ornament, no cake topper, no hands washing
the face of a clock. You’re a metal peace
sign, a fork tuned to turn faces into flickers.
You’re the last divining rod, pulling
pictures out of a pool of clouds.
Not That We Wanted To Leave So Much
The third trip around the fields failed
to convert rows to streets, did not dim
the moon and blot out stars with bulbs on timers,
framed no panel of doors for our entry.
Before that, spinning in circles, calling
“Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary,” in a dark
bathroom at the skating rink in town did not
produce the gushing, gashed face we wanted to see
in the mirror. Holding our breath for long
as we could did, however, trip the trapdoor
in the knees and let us believe, however temporarily,
that we had smacked our faces on the tiles
of another world, that its guardians had given
us shiners. In the light outside, we tilted
our heads to the sun, tried to memorize
the maps streaming on eyelids, wondered
what weather waited in the low, red clouds.
I want to talk about healing,
which implies the presence
of a vague wound. I do not
know where this wound exists,
only that dogs nurse themselves
Jordan Sanderson earned a PhD at the University of Southern Mississippi and is currently an instructor at Auburn University. His work has appeared in several journals, including Red Rock Review, Red River Review, and