Jim Davis

In a koi pond, the unenlightened envelope
painted orange & white, opens. Muffins
in the kitchen where a telescope’s aimed
at the poised neighbor girl, who has singed
eyelashes & lids. In the furnace, chickens.
Chicken wire behind the green garbage
bins. Her father wore a white mustache
& carried a violin. Fire in the pit. Many
whispered in the envelope of underhand
customs. The Master renders the author’s
ampersand redundant. & then the smoke &
then her hands, red & tender from removing
photographic evidence from the dim pond.
Mist as she cracks a pomegranate at the sink.



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Jim Davis is a Master’s candidate at Harvard University and a recent graduate of Northwestern University. His work has previously appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Portland Review, Seneca Review, Midwest Quarterly, Santa Clara Review, RHINO, and California Journal of Poetics, among many others.