1 Poem by Jarrett Moseley
Birth
It is becoming harder and harder to
die. Inside beds, that is. If I clarified
I’m afraid your response would be all
thin lipped ladies and street corner signs.
The end of an era? I think
not. Beneath the centipede’s hide
there are two-- no, three-- swallows:
the bird, although they also have throats
unlike you. Why am I writing this letter?
I do not dream anymore, except at night
or when I wake up and every single image
is a stomach sewn together with skin
grafted from the tips of my fingers. What I am saying
is, you are not a child, but you certainly don’t
do your own taxes. I do have one question.
Between the daisies we shaped into forks
and the red lamb stew that slipped through the
leafy prongs, where did you disappear to?
Is Jesus still green in your mouth? Did
the power lines ever get fixed?
It is becoming harder and harder to
die. Inside beds, that is. If I clarified
I’m afraid your response would be all
thin lipped ladies and street corner signs.
The end of an era? I think
not. Beneath the centipede’s hide
there are two-- no, three-- swallows:
the bird, although they also have throats
unlike you. Why am I writing this letter?
I do not dream anymore, except at night
or when I wake up and every single image
is a stomach sewn together with skin
grafted from the tips of my fingers. What I am saying
is, you are not a child, but you certainly don’t
do your own taxes. I do have one question.
Between the daisies we shaped into forks
and the red lamb stew that slipped through the
leafy prongs, where did you disappear to?
Is Jesus still green in your mouth? Did
the power lines ever get fixed?
Jarrett Moseley is a bisexual poet from Charlotte, NC. He is the Editor in Chief at Non.Plus Lit, and his work can be found in Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine and Homology Lit.