Poems by P. K Jade

flat/running/hear/an end/last

flat like an old soda
flat like a shorn cornfield
flat like a trampled daisy
flat like a-
flat like something that used to stick up


running and never stopping,
in this muck my hands thrust
fingers groping to seize something
that will burn my hands and fucking spark


and can I hear
                        the sound of water falling
                        through your closed palms?

and I can hear
                        that pitter-patter
                        of children on a jungle gym


find me a monument
seal this moment in
while it's still fresh
take it now and make it forever
let me taste it until my lips
go all dusty


what value really is there
in recovery stories
when it/you never lasts/last?


And so what if there are seltzer cans on my counter
and so what if my laundry lies coiled like a bloated snake
upon my bathroom floor which is salted and peppered
with used daily contact blisters and the mirror is frosted
with toothpaste that I could easily remove but don't

So what if my shirt is crinkled,
so what if my nail polish is flaked
and my food is prepared a la microwave
and I mutter when I speak
and my words are deflated

sometimes I do not look you in the eye
and is that because I don't have the energy
or I don't want to                and
is there a choice in choosing to do less
and agency in deciding that some days
you put your sneakers on without undoing the laces

so what if I live between being awake
and being asleep

there is a space before recovery but after needing your help
there is a joy in waiting for the dawn on a cold night and shivering 
and the joy is in the shivering, not the dawn that doesn't exist yet

lately my time is best spent not hoping but noticing
feeling how my hands shake and my stubble grows
and I am too tired to shave it 
even though I don't like how it makes me look

ahead of me are mornings spent enjoying the breeze
and nights around fires with good company

behind me are the cold years

but right now the seltzer cans are on the counter and the laundry slithers
and hot pocket boxes are fruitful and multiplying

lately, I live between two spaces
lately I go for walks at dusk
lately I don't laugh but do I smile

so what if I'm feeling interstitial? 

P.K Jade writes poems and short fiction, often inflected by science fiction and history (sometimes both!). They grew up in New England and there they remain. Poems written on the T are special.

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