Jordan Ferensic
Poem
The feeling of a right thumb pressed
into the center of a left palm - pressure.
Pressure counts only in contrast and
spread like a palm tree it’s nothing.
Pressure counts only in contrast and
a weighted blanket is a nice way
to cross off limbs one by one,
a reminder that they once didn’t exist.
To cross off limbs one by one
a sturdy, sharp saw blade will do;
hunger will strike back in the morning
but weightlessness is hard to come by.
Hunger will strike back in the morning;
a master’s house can be dismantled
with a master’s tools, the stomach
is a dog that eats its own bile.
With a master’s tools, the stomach
vivipares tea leaves and black moods
but isn’t there pressure too?
Maybe it’s somewhere up in the lungs.
But isn’t there pressure too?
Hanging from the ceiling, or below the
night stand that fruit of death looms,
gorging on all the lost limbs.