Somewhere Else Everything Is Significant
A series of poems by A. Moriah Jones The weight of water If there was a sound like the violent rending of a marble floor I’d liken it to that – the sky has cracked in Gwangju a bowl tipped over its contents poured through and it seems appropriate to mention that at this juncture I am ill prepared to hold the weight of water – and so I find more often than not – I have spilled over meanwhile drops have condensed on the surface of clay vessels – as if to suggest the water within is cold but really there are cracks in the cisterns – they cannot hold water Portrait of a room crowded with plants – the family is letting the vines crawl across the wood floor paneling and all along the walls – there is a stain like thrown coffee above the TV and since she gets on her knees every day to wipe around the low hanging leaves – the stain must be left as a reminder or warning: shrunken skulls wind tossed and jangling against each other: a music as broken as the ecstatic screams of children at play and all of it carried past teal neon crosses that are gaudy against the night sky she pulls the towels from the rack where they dried – they’ve all been stolen from hotels – and presently the intimations of halting piano scales drift into the room through ceiling vents ridiculous at this hour – but why not? Dinner on the stove at Café the Big Banana pots coppered and brown with use hang like decorations hand dripped coffee gathers in a spiraled glass there’s English on the signs and bananas with bruised skin the place is eclectic in a way that seems like home – which is unexpected piquant waves from someone’s cooking dinner clash against my saccharine honey lemon tea its tepidity informed by my leisure and the trafficked entrance I’ve been here for hours – and finally evening has come perhaps to say understand more fully the fragments of silences broken by a flippantly earnest bless you the space between the entitlement of naivety the assorted ways of being Somewhere else – everything is significant there is just enough blood to make you curious to make you draw closer to the heavy bellied bird hunched in the ditch – the breast is concave where the wing was pushed bluntly into the hollow boned chest – proven as fragile as you imagine you will hurt appropriately – long enough for you to note where the feathers have been stained where the life has spilled over you will get close enough to be too close – so the bird will stutter away but you will see its eyes and know enough to name your face in its fear It is wet in Korea again The window frames in Caffe Pascucci are all painted red their panes wink with the most recent rain’s sputter – it is wet in Korea again and the bottom panels glisten where the light makes glitter of the dust and crumbs – gnats crawl along gathering what they can bouncing from one sill to the next – at times I can do little more than consider – the man on the corner sorting trash and how he handles it all in a way that seems informed – and I want to look at him until he is beautiful – until he gleams – and I want to tell the woman working her store front touting the benefits of emulsion and essence to use her language precisely – but I don’t understand a word anyway because here to call a women glamorous is to call her buxom – which is to realize the unstated excess in the folds of your body – we’ve been consumed here – we’ve been resisted – but look the streets tidy even though he wore no gloves the sounds at once diffuse and discrete – everything dazzles Moriah Jones is a 2014-2015 ETA at Jeonggwang Middle School in Gwangju.