JOSIE ROZELL - POEMS

Josie Rozell is a budding adventure writer and poet; one time she ran 100 miles--despite the race being canceled—another time she thru-hiked New Zealand’s 1700km Te Araroa. Soon she will cycle from Scotland to Singapore with a mandolin and be a literal traveling bard. She wrote her first poem after a George Saunders’ talk, and hasn’t stopped scribbling in Moleskin notebooks since. But she doesn’t so much write the poems as listen for them—if you know what she means—and would much rather be living this nomadic life than using the English Education degree she had asked for for Christmas 2018. 

More poems can be found at her website, The Hydrogen Jukebox. 

​Moon Rain

Peppery residue, paper-like, call me 
what you want: I’m here and longing 
for you. The droplets that dribble from your corduroy
pant strings, you help yourself to the spicy cocktails.
We’re in the moon-drenched corner
and you’re touching my shoulder
asking to leave. 

To where? 

Upwards, 
you say, 
and gesture, big 
with thumbs outstretched and eyes
like kayaks—we pedal upriver, trout
in search of burial ground. You touch 
my shoulder: I’m here 
and longing for you. 

Tiny kisses
fall from rain clouds, the ones 
from the mountains that spill and
hurry out to the Pacific reefs. The relief
we feel: the shoulder to shoulder
the eyes like moons in eclipse the 
salmon, swift and sturdy. 

Moon rain on shoulder skin
I’m here and longing 
for you. 

Honolulu Baby ​

We came shuffling out in pairs;  
freshly toasted and slightly 
singed, John tipped his bowler 
to the woman with groceries and  
all of us snickered.  
“It’s too windy for this shit,”  
said Ed, and I agreed, tho’  
Maggie did not. She gave me  
that look like—you’re agreeing again 
I see—and I felt my toenails 
scrap against the edge of my sandal.  

We wanted a loaf  
but got waved away by the white man;  
clouds of dirty flour flew up 
as he slammed the door  
into John’s lumpy nose. Ed spat  
and it landed with a thwap  
on Maggie’s calf. Ed laughed,  
and I laughed and Maggie did  
not.  

A man with a shopping cart  
was masturbating in the alley behind the 7-11. 
We saw him, heard that desperation  
as Maggie started to throw her apple into the dumpster.  
She stopped when she saw;  
but the man didn't. His face was flaccid 
and his eyes, open,  
piteously objective.  
I saw her shiver, and thought  
she'd back away, 
but first  she reached into her coin purse 
and pulled out a stack, which she lined like an army  
on the spotty concrete.  

I saw it, then.  
The gift she gave.  
A shadowy hint at the edges  
of his iris; a faint sniff of the stuff.  
Shame crept into his gyrating   
body, flickering like a movie theatre  
open sign. We all walked  
just a bit taller.  

​

Red Balloon ​

This is the age you are 
when the red balloon is launched 
into space. The people 
don’t care—look at them, 
their faces! Lumpy and pouty,  
too windy to be pleasant— 

I hold your hand in mine 
and we lean way back.

​

Remainders ​

​If anything is left,
let it be. 

Let it be like waves
like rolling, ferocious, temperament
unleashed, selected forehead fury. 
Like the dance of the sand
in the cracks of toes, alone and left
to their own devices, rendering skin 
smooth and fresh. 

If anything is left,
let it be. Let it be 
the end of the novel, that rests
in your lap, tickled by wind,
the pages curling and sweeping 
against your bald knees. Let it be 
unfinished, 
doomed forever to longing. 

​Recognition

Nothing fancier 
than the sound of your own blood. 
Take your hand 
and touch yourself; 

go on--

what you feel 
is your own skin; the kin you bear
day after day.
Look at it. 

A million shades of sun 
in every corner. That vacuum 
is a myth. 

Feel the crookedness
as the thumb becomes wrist, 
as the skin folds 
into elbow, as the knot of shoulder
climbs into neck. 

Relish in the absence of plastic. 

You, too, 
are like all of them. 

O my soul--
Practice.

​