Azaleas
.
Here at the end of the world
let’s take our golden shoes
and leave them by the door.
The road is underwater
and whatever light
the moon has left
must be traded
for six dark stones.
I’ve never been good
at disappearing.
Death is also springtime
in Persephone’s calculations:
one step after another,
hosannas in the trees,
and all the dire blue need
of perishing bodies
suddenly bursting
through the wreck.
At the Summit
.
I can’t tell you why I’ve come
dragging my life
to the tops of mountains,
watching the thunderheads
conjured out of smoke.
The start of rain is like a dead man
tapping the belly of the earth,
playing it from the inside.
Cautiously, I cross the meadow,
to where a blue light
waits to kiss my skin.
Seth Jani lives in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven CirclePress (www.sevencirclepress.com). Their work has appeared in The American Poetry Journal, Chiron Review, Ghost City Review, Rust+Moth and Pretty Owl Poetry, among others. Their full-length collection, Night Fable, was published by FutureCycle Press in 2018. Visit them at www.sethjani.com.
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