by Jed Myers

This other light she’s wrapped in
lifts the furrows life left in her
skin. All her ages now,

or none—no shadow where
she leans at something like a desk.
Her dark pen streams an ink-

black shine along the vein-blue
lines down one white page
then the next. The letters weave

like seaweed in a tide-swept river
mouth. Silent lips move
with her hand—a kind of speech.

I start to wake, to drift
between two lands. She couldn’t
see me, and I couldn’t read.


Jed Myers is author of Watching the Perseids (Sacramento Poetry Center Book Award), The Marriage of Space and Time (MoonPath Press), and four chapbooks, including Dark’s Channels (Iron Horse Literary Review Chapbook Award) and Love’s Test (winner, Grayson Books Chapbook Contest). Among recent recognitions, his poems have won The Briar Cliff Review’s Annual Poetry Contest, the Prime Number Magazine Award, The Southeast Review’s Gearhart Prize, and The Tishman Review’s Edna St. Vincent Millay Prize. Recent work appears in Rattle, Poetry Northwest, The American Journal of Poetry, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Southern Poetry Review, Ruminate, and elsewhere. He edits poetry for Bracken.