"V616 is the closest blackhole (presumably) to Earth. But the idea of examining an object and considering its larger metaphoric potential is part of the project occurring in the packet of poems you're about to read. Some of the poems are celebrations and some lamentations, but they all come from the world's and grow into the human heart," explains Jared Pearce.
Some of Jared Pearce's poems have recently been or will soon be shared in Picaroon, Wilderness House, Triggerfish, Southword, and Valley Voices. His collection, The Annotated Murder of One, is just released from Aubade.
V616 Monocerotis
Every picture you
send I want to flip
on like a spaceship,
a time-machine:
I launch myself
into its unsealed
hatch, fling a few
control knobs, adjust
the navi-computer,
zing from the image’s
gravity-past, wormhole
the future to find you
with me, sleek robots
serving dainties, soft
crash of the alien sea
like the resting heart
beat of a sleepy planet.
There will be dangers—
the pictures, reverse
prophecies, show how
much we’ve done
and the galaxy we
lose if we can’t escape
this event horizon.
The Greatest Collective Experience We Can Have as Human Beings
—Newscaster introducing the final match of the 2018 World Cup
I spent all day sanding,
sealing, texturizing the wall,
when the water gave me
angel wings, and I
glided into the kitchen
where Jaime cut rampicante,
layered it with cheese,
tossed peaches and cherries,
and through the window
Max fits Bertram to his bicycle
and their brothers return
from work. There’s dust
and dirt, the table flat
with service and fat on sleep.
We chew on complaint,
voracious for love.
Praxis
I let you have the ball
you took from me so it
seemed we weren’t fighting,
while you steamrolled
my work to the asphalt,
your tricky footwork
glowing neon green.
I handled the shoes
you handed me, scratching
the still-wet paint,
hearing their stories
and personalities, much
still pretty, but the soles
are shot. I put them on
just to see, but I bank
the mile to go will blister,
burst, and bleed. You
point up one more rise,
A sunset, you say, to lighten
us. But the clouds are ash
grey, and the sun’s done away.
Hunger
We check the foraging
spots: raspberries dragging
the spiny shoots, spiders
perched atop, slugs slopped along
the berries that have tugged
the sunlight, slurped the earth,
and seem to want to fall
into me.
We don’t let them
down; most everything else—
robin taking air, rabbit diving
home—runs, and it’s like love
to have the world make
a tiny, perfect offering,
a sip, a zing, a ruby for a ring.
Clubbing
The field of robins popping
above the hay not
awake yet this long
winter, dipping
in the loosening clay,
swaying out and back
to the creek, eyeing
each other for mates mates mates,
their shields and swords
clang as they break
and mount each other.
The earth rattles
with tiny hearts
blooming desire.
