Read the newspaper and prairie
as though like eyes they keep
some shimmer of some truth you
thought you’d forgot.
Even the mug of coffee might
send signals in steam,
though does the meaning change
if in sipping its secrets
you scald your throat raw?
Stop looking for signs.
What is, is; be.
The twelve mice curled like fingernail
clippings along
the path you and your brother
walk from childhood mean nothing
but that twelve mice have died.
And yet not a mark on them,
still furry, still fat, left
by the owls and hawks: oh, too
weird. Keep looking. There
must be something here.
During an act of self-Googling (not a euphemism), Jess Dimond was surprised to find
Jessica Dimond’s poetry website. Jess, who does not have such a website, is
neither related to nor a doppelgänger of that Jessica. Spooky. Jess-not-Jessica
has a B.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Illinois, where Jess studied
with and had the good fortune to be influenced by Steve Davenport. Jess’
publication credits include Brusque, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and
Tarpaulin Sky. Jess lives in Seattle with a long-distance runner and three
cats.
