It is a great power, the conjuring of clouds,
and as such should not be used as a party trick,
but here I am daily spinning them, proud,
throwing shade like a habit, a tired schtick,
doing it cause I can, like masturbating.
Under the newly dark cover, it’s more than
easy to pry off the Pandora lid, plating
my body with goblins, gnawing at organs
in an orgy of pain. I cannot recommend it
highly enough. There are no words
but these to say how it feels: I leapt
from the highest point on the mountain pass
and spread below me are fields of glass.
Read more of Jamieson Ridenhour’s poetry.
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