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Poems By Jeanpaul Ferro


Kissing Her With Risk

Life's aspirations are a fist full of water,
a Fitzgeraldian dream at the end of the tunnel—
C a l i f o r n i a.

To rip yourself out of soaked clothing,
to run in magnificent darkness—
this is the bona fide potential of man,
the poem of risk that you can recite by heart.

I hate the soul that is a museum piece:
doors welded together by years of patina,
stained-glass capped by black light.

Filling every minute brings you this beautiful uncertainty:

A fear you can never go to sleep with,

A lover you can never marry,

A dream that can never be fulfilled.

Northwest Hills

Rain moving across the fields to the porch,
the dry dust of the houses’ dirt driveway,
my own thirst for life, the soft pinks of her larynx,
fleshy tissues and this belief in God we have.

How I search for you in these Scituate woods,
under the blots of shade beneath the birch,
the twisted tuberculosis of the beech limbs,
the order of the sun and the seasons and the gravity
of mid-air.

Do I believe? —just in mirrors,
this gray face, this blurred artist in pain,
this red down of the TV screen laying on the floor,
the voice of Darwin’s capitalism (in his forlorn dream of monkeys).

This is my god ... in my anorexic bones,
my girlfriend talking in tongues with her legs spread open,
through the years of my education— to be perfect, yes, always,
to carry all the world’s blithering space upon my back;
both time and death covering over the same thing.

But in the rain there is warmth, the truth to one’s own self,
all souls alone in the woods, the sound of wind in the pines,
hills where glaciers move across land, but we can’t move,
the deafness of truelove, the faith of believing
in all that you hope (the metal taste of a gun in your mouth).

Originally published by Mid South Review

Ask the sky too

You, too, became light when
you saw how to have me—
a promise in the barn no one
could live up to.

Years passed without the
poetry leaving your eyes;

but then I feigned darkness,
and you too became darkness,
and I ran, alone, back up to the house
without you.

Jeanpaul Ferro's work has appeared in The Cortland Review, Portland Monthly, Hawaii Review, Newport Review, The Plaza, Outsider's Ink, Pedestal Magazine, Mid-South Review, and others. His book of short fiction, All the Good Promises, was published in 1994 by Plowman Publishing. He also has a book of poetry, Super Sonic, that is forthcoming from Chapultepec Press. Additionally, he has recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by The Rose & Thorn Literary Journal.



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