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.