Gift of Nous

The scarab stares up at the sun,
despairing. The dry air electrifies.
This way or that crackles
at knife’s edge.
Sand swirls up
to the peddler’s
padded palm,
The beetle sings
her small sorrow,
aches chains. She is
a summered never scuttling
through paper dry groundcover:
her always.
Space splits open,
but she can only crawl.
She can only carry grains
of sand. His saddled hand
descends, scoops her
to eye-level. Her spindled limbs
snag his skin. The sky
is white as rage.

Hush he whispers, Take wind.

About the author

Jessica Morey-Collins spent a summer living in a tent in rural Alaska and a spring studying art and culture in Ghana. Her work has…

Read the full bio

Issue 15 · June 2012

Table of contents