Jenifer Park
Inscriptions
for Jake Adam York
Dear Jake,
An inarticulate blue lingers.
I woke up & got dressed.
I fell asleep enough.
The accident of
a building collapsing in a spasm.
The miracle of a tree
folding in half.
Dear Jake,
Adam, the first man & all
in the genesis of words, all
in the air we make together.
I thought it’d be your writing
that would kill you, abridged
& spinning towards an emptied,
bruised history.
Dear Jake,
I knew this: circling a bridge
disappeared, watching reels
of questions, food too familiar,
a postcard of trilling fires, & finding each
piece of the broken mirror—your
reflection slightly & never the same.
Dear Jake,
In the gesture of your heavy pen,
a bar line splitting our measures,
the treble & the bass met. You taught
me how to forage
& conduct a silence
that will remain a word.
Dear Jake,
I’m scraping
the inside.
This is all
inadequate.
Dear Jake,
The warm Railyard Ale,
the bitter
fermentation
harvested.
Each moment I remember
is evidence
for the spine
& binding.
You weave
between our teeth.
You alight
from our speech.
Dear Jake,
& still
the risk
of forgetting.
The clock chatters
what is still
able to materialize. Still,
always a wretched,
mocking blue.
Dear Jake,
The library
behind your eyes.
The gravity
turning the pages. You,
in constant
exhumation.
For some time,
there was no language, only
echoes of a tide.
Between
each wave
that reached the shore—
Dear Jake,
In what proximity I muster,
always a distance.
In that distance,
a lobotomy.
The map
swept.
Dear Jake,
The atlantes you chiseled,
rising without dust
to bear
our receding sky—