Adam Jon

I.Pregnant Octoberorange and spiceswing behind my grandfatherin the black and white photonear his twenty-fifth year. Muddied beside the remnants ofhis fields he smilespast the cameratowards his wife. A portrait of strength and adoration.Handsome. Far from humble. Myself, fifty years before. Not invincible, but close—his fists raised like Joe Louisin the smoke falling from the lit… Read more: Forty-Four Hands

Other thingsget in the way.Drinks sometimesfrom a mess of ceramic mugsnever touched by machine or awkwardness,or fear, or regretthat gets in the waywhen we talk. When we talk,do you see the lightbending around my eyesas if something were there? When we talkin tones that pass for friendly,connected as partners in bed,exhausted from a day or… Read more: We Talk about When We Talk

I imagine it ends slowly, soI move at the speed of small fire—ritual ignition. My smoke knows which way is up.I wrestle with the match,the still engine held in compression. Let it happenas I search for the tamp,in a single, blue exhale. I sit in the river,water and stonecurling, rectifying. Sunlight splits vapor and current—orange… Read more: Internal Combustion; or, the Speed of Small Fire