Zodiac

The alphabet is not enough 

to convey the complexity of a mind. 

Rounded subtleties express ennui 

where there should be evocations 

clawing their way out of living rock. 

Which came first? 

the desert on my tongue? or 

the glacier in my gut? 

Lain amongst sand and shadow, 

I bleed on the rubbery points 

of hen-flowers. I’ve become reduced 

to an instance 

in succulence. 

I hear a voice. Their voice? They 

speak in teeth. The Archer splits 

all cosmos in half: an apple 

explodes asunder 

by a tiny fragment of metal 

and one instance of 

combustion. 

I feel the dying coming. 

I feel the dying coming all the time. 

Not coming for me. 

It does not set out for I or anyone, 

but I feel the dying coming all the time; 

the killing comes by surprise. 

I hear a voice. The most ancient voice. 

Water. Old holy sound, one 

drip at a time. My mouth, my nose, 

held within the depths of the Dipper.

A thirst that cannot be quenched— 

the desert on my tongue. 

A soul trapped in its corpse— 

the glacier in my gut. 

A marsh of starlight where sight gets stuck 

as I gaze in awe, 

a reverence for what 

cannot be understood. 

I hear a voice of grinding teeth. 

A shroud, asleep, in my mother’s arms, 

spread open. She sleeps in tongues. 

A voice of feathers in my head. 

A final whisper trapped in bubbles 

beneath a milky sea. 

Death, extant in memory.

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John Wise (he/ him) is a middle school English teacher living in Florida. Whether writing on his own or when working with his students, he promotes writing that is deeply rooted in curiosity, craft, and the sheer joy of creating. John has poems published or forthcoming in Midsummer Dream House, Seedlings, JAKE, Pine Hill Review, and Moonlit Getaway, among other publications. You can find him on BlueSky @central2nowhere.