by Jesse Hilson
I may speak digital junk language.
I only talk to bog witches, stooped
Cripples with computer monkeys on
Their backs. Touch keyboard, they say,
Instead of Touch grass.
I only hang out at the city entrances
With the crowds of heretic-believers
Afflicted with clouds of marsh flies,
Everybody tortured and muttering
And twisting in living hell.
The true resensitization is that
Of the father buried alone
Under sheaves of calendar pages
Hearing the child’s small voicebox
Again repeating “ever EVER EVER—”
Repetitions are the child’s way
Of seeking out its new eloquence:
“Dad, I’ll never ever EVER
EVER EVER stop touching
The touch-me-nots.”
______
Jesse Hilson is a writer and artist living in the Catskills in New York State. His work has been published at Hobart, X-R-A-Y, Exacting Clam, Maudlin House, Apocalypse Confidential, Expat Press, Rejection Letters, Heavy Feather Review, and other venues. He has published two novels, Blood Trip and The Tattletales; a poetry collection, Handcuffing the Venus De Milo; and a short story collection, The Calendar Factory. He can be reached on Instagram at @platelet60 and has a free Substack newsletter called Chlorophyll & Hemoglobin. Follow or subscribe.
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