Jan Wiezorek divides his time between Chicago and Barron Lake, Michigan. He has taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago, and his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming at The London Magazine, Southern Pacific Review, Bindweed Magazine, FIVE:2:ONE, Panoplyzine, Better Than Starbucks, and Schuylkill Valley Journal. He is author of Awesome Art Projects That Spark Super Writing (Scholastic, 2011) and holds a master's degree in English Composition/Writing from Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago. Circularity “Where the historian really differs from the poet is in his describing what has happened, while the other describes the kind of thing that might happen.” --Aristotle Cold berries, pliable as nipple, cut to seed. Their circularity censes praise. I stalk these aisles for answers, sniffing the known around every unknown round: not smooth, and/or supple, or both, but tough as a carved raccoon in God’s raw creation, packed with claws displayed, still inspiring questions. Reeds scent my beard, and it hurts to lick wounds or pick up what’s dropped. When we meet in blessed undergrowth crushed by hills and incense, holes in my walking boots open and press, leathery lips kissing you much like this. Silent Stones At the borderland of wood and quarry, I sunk along sumac. I like to snap twigs and hear lambs’ ear in my forest furnaces. Every molten generation sits in flush and smokehouse pink, like a wandering lad who sees deer in nude exchange. Those rocks mark my mother’s weeds. I’m a tramping kid who dropped off the quarry’s edge. It killed her insides like a stumble of silent stones above our yard. Sippy Cup Clipped nails: of no use to you. We need force to open a tin, tear a packet, switch on nostrils. You breathe the beginning of desire in plantation mint. My honey bear slides a spoonful into your sippy cup. Hot liquid presses against the roof. We tuck it there for seconds. My eyes intercede for yours. Mourning Sad wires have set themselves to humming in the backyard. Unsettled peace greys the rows of tree fuzz. Cardinals peep contrapuntally, slightly anxious. My facial tics pause in memory of my bent neighbor. She pushed her walker to the green plastic barrel. We heard whispers in the alley off the main road. Now, maudlin electricians are raising new poles, re-stringing wires, giving the dead woman many mourners. Orange-lighted trucks process along the alleyway. A leaf turns to remove its hat. Sugared Orange Slices Under Glass Sugared orange slices obscure themselves in pressed glass that teases your thumb as it rubs the squeaky surface below a castellated ridge before climbing down into the dish and grabbing up candied appearances that dissolve in sucking sounds until what remains is you grinning at me, both of us toothless.
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