Jacqueline Moss


The poet smells the light
On a bad day
The scent of death
A rotting deer on bed of leaves
muds the air

On a good day
She glides the scent
of wet rose
surrounding mother
Sweet milk and baby’s innocent breath

The poet sees music
with her compound eyes
The notes climb up her arms and down her legs
sketching a transparent tattoo
Is it a snake or a life vine?

The ants go marching two by two
She dances with drones and the Queen

 The poet’s laugh
Sounds insane
Like a Buddha at the punch line
Or an inmate on the phone
The cosmic joke is on you

The poet
Ransacks your pockets and purse
Reads the private diary in your eyes

You can’t hide from the poet
She fits through the smallest hole
She gnaws through plastic and wood 

The poet is misunderstood
Her words point left
And you look right

She captures your shadow
and sews it onto hers and lizard's and elk's

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