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Jodi Bosin


ian and i walked out behind

the house on that first day

1 or 2 of our supposed 55 acres

there is a creek and bridge

built i guess by fairies

made of earth, covered in grass

no one else went back there

we asked rask what an acre is

he said one chain by one furlong

= 66 by 660 feet

= the area of land

one man could plow

with one team of oxen

in one day

our words are remnant-filled

to keep things familiar, consistent

"history is just one fucking thing

after another" (alan bennett)

would i know the moment from within

why am i somehow always outside

always just right next to it

i wander away from the lake

where everyone else is swimming

the tall grass scratches my legs

i follow where it's worn down

others have been here before me

dialectic of enlightenment

free to choose what is always the same

in the house we found

a single pokemon card, cubone

"wears the skull of its dead mother"

(this seems needless, unbelievably sad?)

and a single issue of the scientific american

that i read when i can't fall asleep

did you know that space-time

is both emergent and fundamental

we have physicists right now

working on how we have never known anything

and we never will


i scratch my leg and there’s dirt under my nails, i am grimy

i read that grimes got surgery on her eyes to eliminate blue light

i read that the world will end by 2050 in one way or another

day weighed down with how to take care of myself

i paint a giant tomato from mackenzie’s farm share that’s

three times the size of my hand and green folding over

onto itself just like me stomach knotted all sweaty and heavy

clammy hands holding man’s search for meaning

thinking about purpose and how we’re at each other’s mercy

everything leads back to these hands, this green paint

alkali lake &/o cape may

scoop me up

on the shore

here where the sky

is pink sherbet

and the sun melts

magenta chrome

like the woman in X2

crying adamantium

my brain repeats

the word “fuchsia”

giant waves

pound the jetty

wet and messy

on the promenade

my mom points out

a bright star

someone passing by

holds up his phone

to tell us yes

it's mars

the gloaming

is the moment

when dark

consumes light

the future is


and a quiet sigh


i say goodbye

and become


shelter in place

around 3pm wherever you are if you're outside / the children walk by / remember school again / remember other lives / remember on the highway that a car is a case with a person inside / like glasses / there was a shooting outside / somebody died / passed away was how they said it / for once everyone all in the hall at the same time / like bees shaken from a hive / people who i'd never met / kind of nice / despite the circumstances / passed away should be a phrase only used for gentle death / but i get it, politeness / and anyways all words are wrong / if you ever find a right one well / you have my number


Jodi Bosin is a Philadelphia-based writer and social worker with poetry in Always Crashing, HAD, Wax Nine, and more as well as self-published zines. Find her on the front porch and on Instagram @jodi_bosin.


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