h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s






Child like a child trying
not failing but falling not so
long a way to the spaces he made
along the hours, halve
the brick, inside the same. Child
like a man trying not to try
but proceed, past the parcel
of a child, of an hour spent
derelicting, scarcely beheld
places he felled with abandon.
Man is a space is half without
distance, assemblage of halflings
in a row. Like a fleetness
of falling before seeking for
Child in a place where child wonts.



The body of a bridge collapses
on itself ; the girl
with the ribcage disappearing
in St. Cloud. These girls take
for granted the arch loyalty
of bone. The girl with buckled
chest must need gently, if disappearance
is collapse with disappeared occasion. When
bridge, when body. When marrowless wants
what surety. That girl wants reason
for collapse, but reason’s build wastes,
build wastes from body.
The girl and bridge found
a riverbed together and disappeared there,
where each takes good mend
to the other’s spine.



I cashed in all my chips and turned

your new girlfriend into a dun cow.

Now you love her even more, your sweet

cow-girl. You walk her through town each dawn,

your pockets packed with clover. You take her

girlfriend’s four stomachs. Evenings you play her

Dixieland LPs and sway together in the parlor.

The whole town is perplexed by the mechanics

of your fucking, but agrees your new girlfriend’s felted

ears are comely when she flicks them fro, and her tongue

is a wide, wild nocturne. Among us, you and I

and your new girlfriend have eight nipples, sweet, and piles of unfinished

mending. Unstitched, one of us is kitchened and you asleep

in a salted bed, forgetting we two made the blue one blue once. We

pastured on want once and didn’t lick clean. I’ve traded

magic for rope-lengths. I’ve traded nothing for less.

I make mouths in mirrors, now. I’m practicing my lows.



Face like an obscure root, growing
seldom. He pulps you, he pulps
you not at all. Spring you green
shoot you, he gathers you with laces
you with green. Did he say gleam? You heard
heed. Sometimes to understand
is a wrench. You hear burrows, you hear Bulb.
Bulb yourself, I need you.
He trusts starches and births. You had a root
one season. You’re missing merely
the fact of it.



The moon’s fingernails
fell out and down
and passed all the very dull
birds and into their very own
downy tides, who assumed
them with small froth.
The good minion, lunar
mignonne, little
terror, all clear –
mother mews at far-off
tantrumming while the others
beat their chests
to meringue at the licks
of trum-trumming, soft
then rough and painful.
And rougher
birds come unjessed,
and whose nest is yare and whose rubble,
whose nest that is, floating
fingerly, nearly
cresting, alights
in city, uncountried once more. Jessie Gaynor is a student at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. You can find more of her
poems online at Spork Press and 7Stops Magazine. She recommends the hummus.


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