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  • Jared Pearce

V616: Jared Pearce

"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.


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.


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.


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.


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The image of Quasimodo is by French artist Louis Steinheil, which appeared in  the 1844 edition of Victor Hugo's "Notre-Dame de Paris" published by Perrotin of Paris.


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