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
and skin, clawing into flesh, swarming hordes
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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