Time is a Circle Crushed by Jonathan Louis Duckworth


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Time is a Circle Crushed

What is loved can’t be dead,
             as a liquid cask of honey
separates the flesh from its rot.
             You who’ve not yet passed,
I’m mourning you now.

             You who I’ve not yet met,
I’m loving you now.

             I’m stripping for you,
swathing pale hide
             in Spanish moss stoles, skin now
host to a host of mites,
             just to see your cheek
become a paper lantern
             illumed by the world’s
smallest hydrogen bomb.

             I’m burying you
in the shade of the myrtle
             you sang from a seed,
I’m waiting for my foot
             to bloom with a patina of roots
knot into the soil &
             walk no more.

We’re fucking
             for the first time
& in confluence our bodies
             become pure verb, voices
loud with thorns to braid
             the night in brambles.




Jonathan Louis Duckworth

Jonathan Louis Duckworth received his MFA from Florida International University. His fiction, poetry, and non-fiction appears in New Ohio Review, Fourteen Hills, PANK Magazine, Thrice Fiction, Jabberwock Review, Superstition Review, and elsewhere.