The Writers In Their Early 30’s

Startling, the morning and startling, the noon.

Mist, and we didn’t understand it.

There was a message coming from unimaginable mountains

and we breathed dumbly inside it.

Some of us had our ears to the angels,

to the windows in the basins of whiskey glasses;

measured ourselves against different sticks

and stretched our shadows.

There was never a way to medicate

the loons of the inner heart, or stop

the white scarves of our breath in winter

from howling about us. We cracked

perfect white eggs for breakfast,

glimpsed the lining of the darker

jokes, and felt very wise

and frightened. The word ‘brave’

grew a ring around it. Spilt coffee

widened on the tablecloth; it mattered

separately from other things, like the way

hearts hung inside question

marks, and the rising water, the outline

of an ark; that it was our turn to board it.

We could not sense death.

But a thicket of nights gathered in the muck

that lovingly blackens the base of the skull

and we thought of beautiful things.

by Mara Jebsen

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