Gilad Jaffe

When a place goes undescribed

a place gets misused

as honey growing colder crumbles

around the rim

of an open bear’s fontanel.

If for any reason

that doesn’t hold water

I was the baby who invented the fire exit

& I’m making for it.

I was a triangle & my shirt is hemmed gas.

I remember the old planet.

I did the floors

for the Sistine Chapel

& I’m coming back home for my paycheck, Frank.

It’s been a long time

since I’ve flown inside your body.

Members in a joint session

of Congress blink

glitteringly at the Speaker

of the House floating incoherently ahead

like dander

in projector beams. A placeless event

in the cornerless blank

& the travelers where travelers are.

Gilad Jaffe is a poet whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bennington Review, Conjunctions, Denver Quarterly, The Iowa Review, The Missouri Review, and TriQuarterly, among others. A recent graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, he lives and teaches in Iowa City.
Originally published:
December 6, 2023


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