JARED PEARCE

Fuzzy

 

I’ve been reading novels all
day and narrating my every move,
            The glass, once warm in his steady
                       hand, cools as the crystal water
                       curls into it, or
            A stray glint of light causes him
                        to jerk his head up, his eyes
                        scanning the foliage for that
                        essence, that thing that might save him.

And then I’m thinking about that
voice I’ve invented to tell my tale,
if it was me or the novels or some
collective anima that repeats us,
keeps us glimmering before ourselves—
ourselves the one drink that keeps replenishing—
we need only the grail of language,
the yonic curve of an s, the fear
created when an i punctures the page,
to pour forth a balm, a voice, a familiar
tale that gets us speaking again
of what life has been, or could be.

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