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.
-- 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.