Catalog of False Starts

Decided to take a bath on the eve of the long night.

I had that feeling again this morning,

If nothing else, this.

Fullness almost always hurts.

I don’t know where it came from, the poppy behind the house.

Span back eight long and flowering years.

I know this; disgrace colors the hips different.

If nothing else, this.

The body is a perfect host; so hospitable, so wormy—

Michael tried to smoke the poppy like opium.

When I go in the ground I look for parasitic flowers:

Grandmother’s ashes one spring and fruiting morels the next.

When he’s sleeping in blue and green,

Stones to touch. Green, touch. Touch

A man I thought I loved crouched down in the grasses.

But it was not somniferum,

jessamyn duckwall is an autistic poet who lives and works in Oregon. They are an MFA candidate at Portland State University and serve as Co-Editor in Chief at The Portland Review. Their work has appeared in Same Faces Collective, Sylvia Magazine, Old Pal Magazine, Radar Poetry, Josephine Quarterly, Kithe Journal, and other publications. They’re on Instagram as @babydeadnettle.