February 5, 2016


Mike Jewett is editor and publisher of Boston Poetry Magazine. His poetry has been compared to, among others, Andrew Wyeth, Van Gogh, Richard Brautigan, Galway Kinnell, and Dylan Thomas. When he was a wee lad he was featured on By day, he is a web developer.

It breathes midnight—
the shape of her hips
is the body of a sitar
notes that thrust
notes that drone,
that wash away breath.

The shape of her hips
a hand grenade
washing her explosive
mouth, the mouth
of the winnisimmet—
flowing, chasing rabbits

Through muck and salt
and salty clams.
Fevers walk their edges
tiptoeing to a house
painted by thought.
The house takes off

His hat, erases his
red soil, beckoning.
Melted wax of the sun
if the sun was Icarus
or two ovaries.

A calabash pipe sits
in a room all alone.
Mother-of-pearl inlay
adorns its stem
stem adorns her lips
she pulls hard

at smoke,
rich and thick
her lungs are smiles.
A C string resonates
inside her gourds
her white flowers
Her white smoke

Her white blood cells.
She switched
her babies over
to compassionate care
that evening, holding

Them when they went
peacefully back to
the source of everything.
Her hips a calabash.
Her hips a hand grenade.
Washing utensils—

Calabash cups, bowls,
and basins, ital lifestyle
let the moons eat
this salt, Caribbea,
stars in the sea.
We wither,

We ashes,
we new fishes
even your touch
is alive, your tongue
a conduit, insulator,

It spills midnight
through the sky’s
panes of glass.
Trace mandarin
oranges with it—
a surfeit.

use for cleaning rice,
carrying water,
bowls for palm wine

And yerba tea
and pennyroyal
in mason jars
with mason bees.

© Mike Jewett

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