by JESSICA JEWELL
You Read Me the Polish Poet in Hungarian
You read me the Polish poet in Hungarian.
Chicken Paprikás is on the stove.
Your lips are as red as wine. Bor
Are red from speaking the words
lovers use. Touch me, lovers say—
this is the body’s way of breathing.
The poets say this too.
You have read me the translation.
(In the parking lot, I hear a woman laughing)
In the laughing there is a small bird.
In the smallness, the stirring begins.
By Looking I Take it In
Halfway to Gainesville from Athens, I see the horse in the field. Mustang blood, patches rust-colored, pom. I want it to be true, but I know she’s not napping in that daisy pasture. I can’t see her chest rising and falling in the comfort of an afternoon dream. It’s harder to imagine here, when the water is on its way, when there hasn’t been a barn fire in years, when the vet is just up the road. Behind the barn, the roosters are leaving tracks. Two cars, Potiacs, rust on cinderblocks. There is a boy in the yard. He has a jar of fireflies. Bed sheets, linens, jerk the line. A black smoke rises like an up-drift inking of the
heavens. These are not the days of famine, but here, in this field, a dead horse. And in
the horse the dead field. And in the dead field the late rain. And in the rain, the thirst.
JESSICA JEWELL is a freelance writer and communications consultant currently living in Budapest, Hungary. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Nimrod, Harpur Palate, Copper Nickel, Rhino, wicked alice, Poetry Midwest, Barn Owl Review, Poems & Plays, Angle Magazine, among others. She was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.