Jacob Kahn
WIGGLE
Wiggle both toothbrushes
between my teeth to get
Arvo to take them. Bite
just above the suction
cup, where the residues
combine. Awake in the dream
and a small piece of arch
flakes from my skull,
right where it’s just skin
and hair. Still Gemini,
January 2nd, the torments
I know of and the torments
I don’t. Get milk before
the store closes. Stop off
at the marina to stare
at the water like Hart Crane,
disbelievingly. English words
clipped from French, so
what? In the darkness lights
of cars ascending the bridge.
Everything log-like in its
final appearance. Fall
sun on long stems.
WHOSE
Whose flat piano is
that? The corner lot
fills up. Petals catch,
a comb in hair. Flat
morning fog. Why
am I still so susceptible
to sincerity and its
cool deceptions? I only
like when I write
a good line: typing
it feels derivative. A few
songs trapped inside a
stuffed blue elephant
in my head. In her cave
dwelling, the cat. Later I
look into sun-smudged
windows outside. Why?
Because I’m high, for
the first time in weeks.
I put on gloves to pull a
deadly plant from the walk
our landlord didn’t heed
and scroll into nightfall.
The recurrence of an
undesirable condition
on the body, or in it.
CHIMES
Neither of our
bathroom lights
are nice. One’s
too bright and
one’s too blue.
Yet Arvo bathes
in both! You can
tell it’s May, almost
June. Gauzy motes
of pollen are floating
up Market, Banana’s
asleep on the bath
mat. Cowardice on
Bravo, Klay on the
Mavericks. And the
voices, voices cry out
from small speakers
about lessons un
learned at the age
you least liked — “standin’
on a farm in the willow
meadow / alone in the
willow meadow” — the
ballads of fatalism,
in they fly! Why do
my lines always get
so, trellised? The car
in front of us spritzing
its windshield. “What’s
your favorite thing about
the library?” A paycheck
NATURE
A wine called blue nun.
A redwood seed
they put into orbit
and planted at the
Botanic Garden. “The
seed from which this
tree sprang was taken
to the moon.” How do
we break down these
distinctions? Goslings
on a lake and horses
stood up, planned for
in their obtuseness. What
about all this did I once find
in a way I can no longer
describe, nor even recognize,
in myself and in the world,
___ . . . ___ transcendent?
Jacob Kahn is a poet, editor, and public librarian living on the territory of Huichin, within the homeland of the Chochenyo-speaking Ohlone people. He is the author, most recently, of Mine Eclogue (Roof Books, 2022) and co-founder, along with Sophia Dahlin, of the chapbook publisher Eyelet Press.
