JJ Rowan
[ 3 crosses ]
i.
lightless street goes bright: perpendicular paint. swatch wise. color leaks
us into the current moment & the moment goes boom. the moment goes.
we go. we light up. we light us. we step, but not at the same time. we time
the route there and back. the asphalt weeps. the traffic lights blink. the
crosswalk crosses its
route in a desperate
not the point. i want
ed without us, it's me
sometimes i'm being moved & sometimes the move pushes me along & i'm wincing.
ii.
the moment goes. twin pulse and her stained glass eyes. hands raised in
approximation. pocket full of pens so when you roll you write it down.
candied fruit for later, sharp bubble for now. you roll. you write it down.
the hill is steep and the pens are good quality. the moment returns and
the page it's a myth.
roll as the top of
the hill. at the
bottom of the bag, wasting, rotting, lining the cotton, making a noise, chang
ing noise's ways, hushing others.
iii.
the myth takes a breath. in the lungs of falsehood we all raise up our
arms. sometimes we sigh. with thumb to pocket, press. with elbow tripod,
multiply. untie muscle's knot with teeth. breath to window pane, a message
for a future. crush
the feeling false
fire grows sinks
want
me. i'm already
me and soon i'll convince you. i can't even feel where my hand lands: not
temperature or texture, not motion or method. the breath tells the same story.
[ eight true stories ]
1
a reminder goes off. it's late in the day. it's almost too late. it's
later, time winces. it's earlier than you thought. the therapist
said pause more. she's not your therapist. she said CUNT aloud with
you in an auditorium in 2006. you don't have proof she said it.
you remember it wasn't quite an auditorium. (when the word's
long enough you can let it trail along.) right before that, or right
after, you repeated the word on your skin. a cover, of sorts.
2
it's late . it's late. it's
later you
said she said
she said
you remember
you can let it
repeat on your skin
3
the short-legged beast is determined and determination protects
you. it's winter. it's maybe 1993. it's a beautiful exaggeration. the
safety is spot-on. the winter is feet-deep. frosted whiskers and
fuzz hocks. two bare animals making the first path through the
deep field. in my favorite fib, i land on my feet. the power is in
how i mistell the story, remembering what's in the ground now,
remembering myself alone, even though he's probably watching from
the barn.
4
the beast is
feet-deep a
fuzz
in my power
i remember what's in the ground now
watching
5
that record of miles written every way but counted. there's the slant
of the hill, real & imagined temperatures, freeze warnings, colloquial
measures of pot & sink holes, reasons for walking, mechanics
of walking, lifespan of boots and shoes, walks indoors avoiding
frostbite and deeper depressive episodes. there's the night an elected
official drove me that last mile, sent me inside with a fresh warm loaf.
some other season we sat on the dock, feet questioning the water.
this was before construction, and after we said those things aloud.
6
there’s
real & imagined
reasons for walking
that last mile
aloud.
7
the only tv light is where you push the dust aside. museum of trauma,
nearly closed for good. these are like flipping channels on a dial, a
hard click, an inelegant picture transition. six buckets of rocks.
click. playing chicken with the black widow in the pump house. click.
too big a drought year to drown in the river. click. she's crying over
boxes of what you can't remember. click. she's not eating again. click.
not his words but the tone of his voice through two kinds of filter. click.
fill your own cigarettes while i scratch a word into the furniture.
8
you push
like
click
click click
click
click
click
your own scratch
[ april snwpm ]
in conversation
the mothers
stuff what they
can gather into
the voice of a
locket care
doesn’t
hinge
on
how you
tear back
your forms
love
isn’t
what’s
worth
stuffing
some-
where
i mean (the locket surges
when your body
tears does it (information
let out what it can doesn’t synthesize
while it can here
(information goes
here to die
nothing goes
crunch, not this
spring green soup
everything
soggy
underfoot
snow’s more (holy
line than holy
dot
more (i’ve written
blade of it before
grass than
blade’s entry (is this
what i meant?
by pick up the
phone i mean
i think of you
by
pick up the phone
i mean
there you already are
that is
i pick up the
phone again
my ghosts come (as soon as i’m in (over here
& go as they proximity i forget i don’t smell it
please the worst details coming
and
i know: (i total numbers (i don’t
subtract numbers count on it
they move like
horses (correct my posture
around my own nerve
JJ Rowan (they/them) is a queer nonbinary writer and dancer. Their poems, not-poems, and interactive performances have appeared in Just Femme & Dandy, Dream Pop Journal, 45th Parallel, and at the SMOL Fair and the Splinter Collective’s Interrupted by Trains, among others. Their most recent chapbook is a simple verb (Bloof Books). You can follow their #notebooking project on Instagram (@stepswritely) and sign up for their newsletter, actual motion, at www.jayjayrowan.com