Jared Pearce

Jaime’s Summer by Jared Pearce

Jaime’s Summer

by Jared Pearce


It should begin along the lines: sorrow,

red moon above naked maples, only a sole

lamp lit in the house;


gather like the late August rains,

like the heat in September, the folds

in the living room drapes;


slip away from touch, see

how the spiders lift themselves

into the earth, into infinity;


without her feeling the angel’s

wing brushing her feet it

should be felt; it should be


real as the locust, its singing

voice marked only by its silent,

worn-out self clinging to a tree;


long as a river, charged

as a river, as a chicken hawk

owning its powers


it should float, strike

in its ferocity

to tear into a hunger.

All rights revert to our authors on publication. Please don't mess with our authors or photographers. ©Apeiron Review