Ode to my one weirdly long arm hair that I cut you with surgical scissors, the ones I use to split the lidded eye that I know you as an invisible blonde, though in my aging I grow darker by in blight. becoming, in sheepish sense, father to a talisman, that I spoke thread and now I glean this wheat of me, my fields a pair of fore-veins, fallow plough works kept clutter null in gold. I would, if you were still with me, give you as a gift to some storied hero deprived of golden boon who must loose his heavy halyard and sail to meet his imprisoned lover in a donjon across the sea. Sooner, I could let you grow, and warp so long you poke out every needle’s eye, string them all together into chimes of cuspate sheer, tie hooks and pinch with leaden sinkers to cast, and fish, and never again fear hunger. And if I did not kill you, you would be with me in those hours when loathing struts and claps its fulcrum bell along my streets, the cure it sells, a miracle, and I can attest: ‘it’s true,’ I tell myselves, ‘if I can grow an arm hair as long as this, it’s all true!’ You are with me even if a nub, even if your root be plucked, or scraped in some dragging from my seat to dance, even if in oil you escape, be it popped from frying pan or pyre, be it vivacious, sebaceous, supreme. You may leave, but don’t ask me. You don’t need my permission. I am not my arm. You are not a guest.
James Cole is a poet, author, filmmaker, and scientist based out of Charlottesville, VA. He is currently working on his Ph.D. in neuroscience at the University of Virginia. His writings have appeared in numerous journals, including Poetica Review, Artemis Journal, and Carolina Muse, among others. In 2019, he released his first collection, Crow, come home, through VerbalEyze Press. James also servse as an editor for The Rumen Literary Journal.