Madness is not the only art that consumes.
In our mind, rooms, and in them the scuff
of footsteps and faces veiled in tulle.
We unpack, and pack, and pack these rooms
until a man shaped like sense forms to
give his approval. But do you approve
of this man – his pin-straight spine and incessantly
scratching pencil? Pinel watched his friend
go to the wolves and found a calling
in that moment. The brain hunger called
to the friend, offering something of comfort,
of nourishment, but the wolves made a meal of him
before he could find them. Imagine your favorite
part snapped up in a wolf’s gnashes – your calves,
your cheekbones, sharp as compass coordinates.
Could you identify yourself once gone to pieces?
In daydreams I’ve entertained the thought
of moving to the woodland, unpacking,
and packing, and packing a plot by a den –
my bed in the earth and lined with stale ashes.
The wolf would come to me then, rest
his chin on my hip and pledge loyalty,
defense – my friend in a sleek jacket
of deception. Am I a fool to trust this beast
in beast’s clothing? To pull the pearl from his lips
and see a beautiful omen, despite knowing
that it is ocean-born – stolen? I expect to play
the fool to his magic, to applaud the performance.
One day I will wake to find teeth at my throat,
a jaw clamped to my wrist – feeding,
and feeding, and feeding the madness.
Jessica Furtado is a poet, photographer, & owner of the popular Etsy shop All You Need is Pug, whose products have been featured in Fortune, Daily Mail, InTouch Magazine, FYI Pets, & Cesar’s Way, and whose shop was noted as an Etsy Featured Seller. Her work has previously been published under the pseudonym JJ Lynne, with photography and micro-poem collages appearing in CALYX, Muzzle, PANK, and The Brooklyn Quarterly. Her writing can be found in apt, Hobart, A Narrow Fellow, Rust + Moth, Spry, and Stirring, among others. Jessica is co-editor of poetry for the literary journal Paper Nautilus and works by day as an Early Childhood Literacy Librarian. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and two rambunctious rescue dogs.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.