John James

Glossolalia

i.

          Fog clots the air, almost
absent, nasturtiums denuded
                    in the small distance.

          Dew pallor gathers
in the park. Ravens
                    interrupt. Scraps

          of paper, plastic bags,
the movement of anything
                    acknowledging the wind’s receipt.

ii.

          Ravaged cabbages,
the shell
                    of a salted snail

          tossed among dandelion heads. The heads
pricking through
                    a brick wall. Fog

          sieves the sound
of a dumptruck
                    extracting discarded

          matter from a can. White moths
circle a pistil, tongue
                    an orchid’s yellow fuzz.

iii.

          Crushed glass kneads
the ankle’s thrust,
                    blood erupts

          on the pavement. Last night’s
rain’s inscribed
                    on a patch of winded

          cellophane wrapped around
a metal hasp.
                    Weather’s edge,

          ​your mouth’s an open
wound. Clouds
                    surround the puncture’s

          ​bright bloom. 

--
John James is the author of The Milk Hours, selected by Henri Cole for the Max Ritvo Poetry Prize (Milkweed, 2019). He is also the author of Chthonic, winner of the 2014 CutBank Chapbook Award. His poems appear in Boston Review, Kenyon Review, Gulf Coast, Poetry Northwest, Best American Poetry 2017, and elsewhere. He lives in California, where he is pursuing a PhD in English and Critical Theory at the University of California, Berkeley.