3 poems by n jewell

blueberry compote on a tablecloth
white feather on the glass dish

slice of beet on a pillow
fifteen gold spoons on the first stair

gelatin transfers blue onto white countertop
all sixteen chair legs aligned under the table

 

strawberry slices lining the sink

sweet potato sprouting in a window

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blueberry smear on the tablecloth

white feather rocking on a glass dish

 

 

 

 

mark my cave of peaches with butter
i know where to turn to find it,
i want marks anyway.

mark the sun’s path with sugar
i know where it turns, i want marks
anyway. mark the mountain with vinegar
even though i know where it turns down.

i want clouds to spill over
paths with lemonade.
i know where to turn,
i look for marks anyway.

where did the cave of peaches go
after butter made peaches
forget they were peaches,
made cave forget it was cave

they need a mark to remember
where they are, they need marks
to remember where they turn
into anywhere else. 

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i squeezed the air between my tongue and roof
so hard that it became more like air, it became rain.
i rolled the rain around in my half slack jaw,
archiving its vacancies. the rain is rain
because it articulates a medium,
gives lacks their own levels to seek out.

the rain is interfering with its own signals
newer rain condensing
the sunrise into a blush—
a smudge leaning a red pillar toward blue
the old rain now appears as dew

i mashed this air so hard
it became soon-to-be fruit.