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.

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