|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|The Truth of It
When Ofelia slipped under me
like warm tectonics,
I didn’t remember English
the same way a caterpillar unfurling its antennae,
pandiculating, wouldn’t understand
English: she gestured her questions to me
and then I answered those questions
with questions of my own, just like
Thelonious Monk once said to do,
turning his head toward the camera and speaking
to me, the cameraman, through the cloud
of cicadas billowing up
through the wire ribs of his piano.
There aren’t any acoustics in a room full of cicadas, I said to him,
brushing the things away from my face.
Ain’t that the truth, he replied.
About Jerry Johnston