In every which way, I am living

for potential. I’ve mined cadmium

enough to roulette with Death

and Mars, bloodshot brute,

is swollen in my honour.

My function is action —

to pummel through concrete

and machete hedges,

to shear the irresolute

with only wit and lichen-rich

perfume. Allow yourself

to make you is cross-stitched

at the bough of every ingress.

Fool is to worry. Fool is to wait

for someone to tell me what I know

already. I clap for a mind

that can change and will.

I harness nature’s fortitude

and call bats down to crush

the self-doubt that parades

as my true self in platform

sandals, teetering and ignorant

of the hidden messages of fate.

That I will flourish

even without permission.

Bibliographical info

Jessie Jones, "Eclipse" from the fool. Copyright © 2020 by Jessie Jones. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.

Source: The Fool (ice house poetry, an imprint of Goose Lane Editions, 2020).

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