JACOB GRIFFIN HALL
The air is crystalline, a mimetic hearse let shift through a slow stream
of snow – the cold let be cold in itself
and in its movements. One slate black and one inconsolable
There is only duality
for as long as the body
So many things can be a body – a thought, for instance. A leg of slush
on the sidewalk that calls barberry
and takes you to a word on the river. There is a moth
with shackled wings
rested on my tongue,
a cool delirium
of icepick and burgundy.
I am a cicada spring. I feel paisley dust in my ears and there is a voice
sealed with frozen windowpanes. It is inaudible, but nonetheless speaks
about thorn brush and wilted eaves, about the inescapable texture
of freshly torn bread. A pendulum let through the wicked branches
of a peeling white cypress. I turn to myself in the ice-wrought night and I
suspect that forgiveness is simply an effigy for mourning. Each willow
into a patchwork
of seedless frost,
and the winds will shiver faceless to the bone.
Jacob Griffin Hall was raised outside of Atlanta, Georgia and currently lives in Bowling Green, Ohio where he is pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing. Presently, he acts as the Assistant Poetry Editor for the Mid-American Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Carolina Quarterly, MAPCAP Review, Santa Ana River Review, and others.