by Joe Fletcher
Just as in wheat a lightless fire heats the blood,
swells the ventricle, such that little rarefied
glass globules burst through the arterial pores,
propelled headward by the emanative thrust
in hot things. I call them spirits because you can’t.
You can’t reach in me and grab them. They grab
a kind of entelechy in their recesses, curled
like a shrimp but with a blind plan coursing
in the black briny vein. I call them animals
in me, me who emerges from a colony of these,
as if I’ve always been here, hunched over
the heap of perceptions while a lady tickles
my bare backside with a hummingbird feather.
They are responsible for a taste of May wind
the sundried loblollies have sifted beside
the wretched river bank. I call them glass
because they look through and not with me
at two men wrestling erotically near some gas
pumps. If you were them, and none of us are,
you could fold these sights with all the rest
in the inverted chromosomal plenum knocking
in the medullary lobes in the brain that they
see only as forces in various brainlike arrays.
I do not go there with them. Something makes me.
Something makes me posit an infinitesimal
subthing between us, a crystalline humor.
Joe Fletcher is the author of two chapbooks of poetry: Already It Is Dusk (Brooklyn Arts Press) and Sleigh Ride (Factory Hollow Press). Other work can be found in Jubilat, Octopus, Slope, Puerto Del Sol, Painted Bride Quarterly, Hoboeye, Hollins Critic, and online at joefletcherpoetry.com. He lives in Carrboro, North Carolina.