and squaring a jaw. Hear that? A baby cries through
someone else’s monitor. A baby cries
through another radio, someone turns a corner
down. A page listens. More or less, you’re the din
in my hard-of-hearing ear, while the other’s pressed against
this decade’s sure crib. How the night clears up
isn’t clear at all-- it’s not a logic that gets us but the wick of a feeling. If I had something to say
it would be this: Come outside with me, but ignore the moon.
She Seemed to Arrive Slowly
For hours I pulled toward you, sea star—
I was a traveling pause, I went deliberately across that dark floor.
The sand created clouds of my lungs. Taking pleasure in holding zero,
my hands stirred the water and made ornaments of oyster shells.
To charm your five fingers, I unrolled a fog from my ear— a long signature to know me by, a dim and dissolving sugar. Star,
you are the evening that’s easy to keep near.
The Photo Shoot
I am told to sidle up to a tree; I ask its limbs
to surround my own with leaves. There is a clothing there
is a clothing. Under a canopy of lenses I subvert my self. I am almost
invisible. If my eyes would dilate they would be two acorns.
There is something about the veins and pores of flora
that my body responds to by becoming unseen, becoming
too small to see; what’s left are a few bobby pins
and one clavicle. It might be another body’s branch.
The thing that’s difficult is the timing of it all. Knowing
when to breathe. Knowing when to do anything, to ask for water,
for a robe or a mirror, to ask for a mirror. To ask for proof of the shot,
of the shoot that emerged years after my body left.
-- Jennifer Moore has poems published or forthcoming in American Letters & Commentary, Best New Poets, The Volta, Columbia Poetry Review and elsewhere, and criticism in Jacket2 and The Offending Adam. She holds degrees from the University of Colorado and the University of Illinois at Chicago, and is an assistant professor of Creative Writing at Ohio Northern University.