Conversation with an Eye Seen through the Keyhole
Rubber ducks bob in censoring suds.
Do you think I can fit inside the shower
caddy? All this ginger, citrus, & oatmeal
scrub tastes like soap. How does it smell
on your side of the door? burning leaves?
the body? You are alive, I agree, though
only after days inside the whale’s infected
belly button ring. I’ve pierced more holes than
I once was
You should have seen my caterpillar,
my pupa, my fat, sad self, reflected
in a ponderous ravine. Black flies
on pads of butter. I pray my best
days are future. I know you don’t sleep,
but do you blink? Isn’t it a sad thing,
not knowing? No, I can’t fit my toes
in the faucet. Are there others
on your side of the door? If so, slip one under.
I’m lonely like a drain.
This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge.
JIM DAVIS is a student of Human Development and Psychology at Harvard University and has previously studied at Northwestern University and Knox College. He reads for TriQuarterly and his work has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, The Harvard Crimson, Portland Review, Midwest Quarterly, and California Journal of Poetics, among others. In addition to writing and painting, Jim is an international semi-professional American football player. @JimDavisArt
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