They say this war will be fought in the air
but it’s finished in these uninsured teeth
and a rage for sweets. I reach for
a reason, the unified theory of my own unrealized
potential, and maybe it’s no more complicated than
believing a lie someone told me about
myself. A specialness. Self-made
sucker. How are some people able to go out and get
what they want? They ask me what I’m up to
and I tell the truth, which is
I’m hiding in the same room on the old street
until I melt. Spending money
I don’t have, worrying about being a burden
until I make it so. Waiting for a billionaire
to finance the end, scrolling until my hand hurts.
I look for solutions in the shades of evening and
the unfinished nature of things, lustrous silver pieces
for the puzzle of carbon. I clip more lilacs from
a neighbor’s bush, afraid I’ll never
put it all together. How does a person
change their nature? This was supposed to be an ode
but I never learn. Not anymore. They say
this war will be fought in the air, but there
in the fathomless May night, I
replaced my throat with a throat
of flowers.
JEREMIAH MORIARTY is a queer writer from Minneapolis. His poems and stories have appeared in The Rumpus, No Tokens, Puerto del Sol, Catapult, Breakwater Review, and elsewhere. Find him on IG and Twitter @horse_updates.
DAVID A. GOODRUM, photographer/writer, lives in Oregon. His photos have graced the covers of Cirque Journal, Willows Wept Review, Blue Mesa Review, Red Rock Review, The Moving Force Journal, Snapdragon Journal, Vita Poetica and appeared in many others. See additional work (photography and poetry) at www.davidgoodrum.com, Instagram: @goodrum, Twitter: @goodrum.
