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Jim Rioux


Moon-numb, tone lonely, blinking dust again. . .

Start by clearing your throat, wiping that smirk

off the mirror. You’re too old for this, texts

scrawled on the inside of your body’s caves,

nothing to light them. If this were a dream

your hair would be a nest of bees, hands

sewn together by clowns. But you’re awake

to that first terrible caress when you lunged

hum-hungry toward your own absence, chest

all toothless whistle, spine the strummed tines

of a comb. When you’re hungry enough

remember Ezekiel, how he devoured scrolls

and dung cakes. Imagine yourself full

of the good shit, of what is unutterable.


Jim Rioux’s poetry and prose have been published in a variety of journals including Prairie Schooner, The North American Review, Five Points, and The Café Review. A singer/songwriter, he has recorded two albums—Darlings of the Soil and yes I will Yes—with Burst and Bloom records. He teaches writing at the University of New Hampshire and lives with his wife Amanda and dog Jimbo in Kittery, Maine.


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