by Jeremy Szuder
The gentle velvet click of beetle bones
and joints rubbing notes of stairway melodies
into a spiral of upwards waltzing,
it begins when the fingerprint transfers
itself onto a pane of cold glass.
The warm flesh is mentioned
so casually as a dot is round,
because it is the vessel of
all brilliant dancers,
even when they have folded
their lanky wings and even when nature
strains to mock the pressing tender foot,
that foot dreaming of becoming
a cat's paw or a falcon's beak.
I thirst in a silent swell,
my skull encased in a pillowed ocean
of ballet flats and the ankle weights pulling
sparrow bodies down into pools
beneath the well worn floorboards of
To rise again with great passion,
this artistry takes hostage the hearts
of babes who’ve assigned their souls
to the care and possession of a madness
that will never fully pass.
It is an avalanche of ivory keys and
sent razor sharp to cut through
the thickness of the summer
Jeremy Szuder (he/him) lives in a tiny apartment with his wife, two children and two cats. He works in the evenings in a very busy restaurant, standing behind a stove, a grill, fryers and heating lamps, happily listening to hours of hand selected music and conjuring ideas for new art and poetry in his head. When his working day ends and he enters his home, he likes to sit down with a glass of wine and record all the various words and images that bear fruit within his mind.