Water, moving flecks of lapis, pushing

forward the minnow crowds

that try to move it round, make it

form to flesh, a gel we push against,

the azury center bending. This can hurt,

when molecules stick

like souvenir gems, coins or nails

we catch on. Mostly I am

drowsy in the river, my desire washes

out, veins empty of a pulse, foreign current,

flat as moons you don’t believe in.

I enjoy the reassurances of water,

a language-promise

moving me, as I am pulled

into the gold mosaic of a wall,

consumed, enameled: my flesh

bleeds noiselessly,

everything is still and spilling on,

spills through me, my eyes keyholes.

I am awake, briefly. The wind is not

headless, but singing on rivers, pushing

the whisper, the sound of passing,

in oscillations, some kind of air in a fit,

the rush of an urgent voice.


Jordan Joy Hewson is from Dublin, Ireland but moved to New York to study at Columbia University where she is an MFA graduate. She recently debuted her work in A Public Space and Boston Review and is living and writing in Brooklyn.