January, Huddled

Jennifer Moore

The light is empty of stitching,
of bright weather, bees not opening
from a hole in a tree.

That tongue has a mouth’s worth of teeth
and each one hangs with ice.

In winter
I am the cat with three eyelids,
each one unscrolled to veil
a different feeling.

What I mean is,
the gallery exhibits its own empty walls.

What used to be a voice blew under the door;
outside, one degree of temperature

is a lonely thing to feel.
It’s a small world, after all.

Jennifer Moore is the author of The Veronica Maneuver (University of Akron Press). Her poems have appeared in American Letters & Commentary, Best New Poets, B O D Y, Columbia Poetry Review, and elsewhere. A native of the Seattle area, Jennifer is an assistant professor at Ohio Northern University and lives in Bowling Green, Ohio.

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