A room of solitude, the world.
Out the window huffs of wind
do what they can to enunciate. You listen
like a monk. A votive hula flame.
Sound of a hand reaching in — rabbit
or hyena pulled out. No one knows.
The more you remember —
someone else. Dead midge on the keyboard,
brush it off; curtain whisperer. What it’s started
to mean is no longer you. (This is
happiness.) Your past takes a flourishing bow.
A crowd tosses their hats up inside your protagonist.  

My Character Says
I’m trying to read the book I’m in, eyes tracking the horizon
for danger. My God, I exist.

Not bad: floor-to-ceiling windows,
little lights of the city all the way to the river,

then I’m out on the river on a raft of light, moving fast,
tongue of the creator pleasuring

the craft — splendor of a luminous sail luffing softly —
have a mind to? — want to know

what it’s about. On the table,
velvet-pink & purple snapdragons,

succulent viridian stems in a glass
water-globe, wavering nerves of light,

a sill-dove, plaintive. I reject the petty
love given me to give.

Jari Chevalier

JARI CHEVALIER's poems have recently appeared in Arcturus, Beloit Poetry Journal, Boulevard, The Cincinnati Review, Gulf Coast Online, The Cortland Review, The Massachusetts Review, Poetry East, and other literary journals. For updates and more information, please visit

Latest posts by Jari Chevalier (see all)