Poem by Wren Jones
May 15, 2023
I turned my body into a pill and swallowed it
It escaped me, it feathered me, it made me well, lifted dread, frizz, small pieces stopped falling off. It floated on water, it rode on the back of a squid, it had no bones to make about anything. It washed up on the beach, a green bottle with a message—consume me, fell onto driftwood, became a white and red rowboat crashing waves, smashing into seawalls, grand illusions floating like dollhouse miniatures, clock hands that measured worth spilled into the ocean, drugging time. It was anti everything— histamine, racism, biotic, frantic, aches left, heartache hovered and drifted away, it twisted me in the wind, made me thirsty, draining the cup that overfloweth, it blossomed into red and white carnations, a box of chocolates, rose water, mer-priests anointed me, flipped tails, get your cannons off me, it screamed underwater, propelled me to a new ocean, hauling sea ass, scarping coral, singing with jellyfish, stinging me holy.
About Wren Jones
Wren Jones is a writer and outdoor enthusiast, often lost/found walking the ravines of Toronto. She’s studying at Simon Fraser University, The Writers’ Studio. Her poems have appeared recently in Untethered, Pine Row Press, and Sky Island Journal.