I often feel so reasonable. More. I want a quarter, a hundred, a crew, a V. To cross the street, take the bank, one breath down the road, easy. Afternoon— January, or Tuesday, it’s Wednesday, I’m contented, fatted off, married —or not —who knows. I felt reason. Raison. But different, my reason, her pelt’s French acrylic squeak in your teeth. Over head, one arm, that neck. I want this sweater— who doesn’t? My brother. Who does? My sister. All we do— want and more, distraction, easy, rose smoke and polka dots. I want it bad new arms, youth’s boxy top: I miss pleats. I want reason for myself. See, poor January? A Tuesday, I’ve been just a taste. That’s snacking. What I want— I mean, thinking. Not long do I afford reason— just reeling in my need, hot and raw.
Issue
6
On Impulse
JoAnna Novak · Poetry
