The simplest, most incommunicable truth
Is a small stone at the bottom of the heart,
An intimation amongst the bile,
Amongst the patchwork of perjury and blood.
It doesn’t sing like love,
Or burn in the bowels like hate or anger.
It barely simmers even when the most glaring space
Opens for its presence.
Instead it is like a hint of the unknown
That comes and goes with the wind’s discretion.
An instinct that shudders in the carpentry
A subtle premonition
In a backed-up voice box.
It’s a slow, lugubrious butterfly
That occasionally starts up
From the intestinal thatch-roof,
Lifts its one-of-a-kind body
Up through the diaphragm
And disappears through the pear-shaped
Clouds of morning.
Seth Jani was raised in Western Maine. He is the founder and editor of Seven CirclePress and his own work has been published widely in such journals as Writers’ Bloc, The Foundling Review, Phantom Kangaroo and Chantarelle’s Notebook. He currently resides in Seattle, WA. His website is http://www.sethjani.com.