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,
moving me, as I am pulled
into the gold mosaic of a wall,
consumed, enameled: my flesh
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.