by Jesica Davis
The subterranean lake never goes away,
the fact of squishy socks and wet toes.
Remembering that how fast you sink
can be a measure of presence. A damp metric.
Though its shores may advance and recede,
some years more haunted, dripping than others,
it would be a mistake to disown all those
soggy ghosts, their weighted, freight loads
of memory and forked roads — to feel safe
from drowning just because today’s land
paces solid under feet. Do not forget: temporary.
In this dry season it may hide, it may not
be your turn to seek, but from that
chilly, tendriled grip you are never
out of reach.
Jesica Davis is a poet and technical writer originally from Chicago, currently not really living anywhere. She’s the Associate Editor for Inverted Syntax literary journal and her work has appeared in The Laurel Review, Zone 3, streetcake magazine, Stoneboat, Storm Cellar, and other venues. Jesica has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes. She studied poetry at the University of Illinois (as well as The New School, NYU, and Poets House), was the final Alice Maxine Bowie Fellow at Lighthouse Writers Workshop (2016-2017), and won the Tarantula Prize for Poetry (Pilgrimage Press, 2018). Sometimes she makes poemboxes, which sculpturally interpret her words. See jesicacarsondavis.net for more.