From the desk of Archimedes, with regards to Narcissus
He has been displaced,
his bottled rust water
a choking hazard.
Cheap alchemy clutched
in his meaty fist
like a liar’s crown,
silver hidden under gold.
but worth less.
He who cries
often also cries
The Drowned God’s Lament (with a heavy sigh)
I knew I’d eventually slip.
It’s the seaweed that gets me; slick
in a storm-tossed sea. I always cross the sandy edge
of honor, wipe my eyes with salt-soaked hands.
It’s painful, burning. You know the feeling.
Your hungry body lies like I never have;
graceful. I’d like to run my hand once more
across the sloping hill of your hipbone,
trace the dip of your clavicles.
I thought I had more time to hold you
down by the shoulders, your face just under the waves.
Thought I’d feel the gentle stroke of your fingers
tracing the semicolon on my forearm,
your brined eyes pleading, locked on mine.
Jen Fischer Davis (she/her/hers) has an MA in English from Northern Kentucky University and is co-EIC of Many Nice Donkeys lit mag. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and long-listed for the Over The Edge New Writer of the Year Award. Publication credits include a collage essay in McSweeney’s and poetry in Rust + Moth, Eclectica, The Fourth River, Whale Road Review, Licking River Review, and many others.