jen fischer davis

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.

Not worthless,
but worth less.

He who cries
Eureka
often also cries
wolf.

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.