Six Poems by Jai Britton

arm's length

in one of those boxing movies
a chin is cupped
lifted
positioned

like a golf ball on a tee
placed
set
gingerly
lovingly

so it can be
smashed to hell's acres.

you could be a movie star
positioning
setting
gingering

loving me from arm's length,
this scheduled excuse,
a cooling off,

or you could be
cupping my chin.

In something, Love. Of something, Soul.

There is no nightshade here.

That is the smell of brimstone,
maybe sulphur,
like smoke,
or something, perhaps fog,
rising off the shallow, lime
lake of the soul

infested with algae, or seaweed, or protozoan
organisms that emit a shiny, green
light, or reflect it.

*Orchids grow because of air.

They droop
with passion at the edge of my green lake
which, in itself, is meaningless,
no substance, no body, no stuff. Tangibility
is what is of the essence. Say
what you mean.

There is no nightshade here,
my friend. Mandrakes are to the right.

Maybe in another language
love
could be a jewelry box,
the soul
a many splendored gem
that might contain the universe of a spectrum,

or reflect it.

Bonfire

Our tribal drum,
this farmer's thumb against
the strum of salmon

planks alight again
this porcelain drain
which strains against cracked

laundry tub that once was white
now topped up with little
lights that break

fast open and land in this
silver strand of what used to
be your auburn hair.

Blood to Flesh

it was your neck
i bit on
when i felt i couldn't keep
it all together

i took your blood
to the surface of flesh
and felt you pound
between my lips

(drums stretched and beat
on tom
toms relentless groan)

it was pulsing red
and bruised purple
a sailor's sun

risen to the horizon
of the plains of your chalked
body laid out

alive

upon mine.

Swivel Stool at Husky's

It's both very late and very early,
and stars in the tin of pears
are mewing complaints
about their wrinkled fingertips
and skinny-dipping by default.

The full fluorescent moon chuckles
his stubble-bearded whiskey
laugh. Eyes closed. Mouth
opened. Can't you see his fillings
and his acne scars?
Soon
he'll topple from the bar rail,
eyes encrusted, sandman goo, snoring,
sleeping it off. Best just to leave
him alone.

Clapton and Layla,
forever lovers, etched into the formica.
The back booth is theirs. They
might believe Elvis is alive,
given enough coffee refills.

Red vinyl with duct tape, hairnets.
The sugar pours by dull spoons.
It's a blue world
being both very late and very early.

I like the silver swivel stool
by the kitchen door
to smell the nicotine
unfiltered

and my pumpkin pie, dollops
of heavy cream,
sprinkled
with a cinnamon constellation
of moon-faced truckers.

Who is John Galt?

Metallic men
etched with wood-burning tools
each path to Olympus
if one dares to brave the coals
of Andromeda, of X-196,
of the rails to Mexico.

He bought a star
and put it in his pocket, and a locket
for my neck. We bought some salami
and oregano (for uprisings, he said).
I sent him off to fight the wars
of thievery and lyres.

I see him now and then
under the bridge. He never says hello.
Who is John Galt?

About the author:
Jai Britton lives in the beautiful foothills of the Rocky Mountains. She has been in numerous online and print publications, recently including Thieves Jargon, Mannequin Envy and Carnelian. You can reach her at sourtaste7@hotmail.com.