Hairbrush crosswalks parting
     no-one’s-mother, shoes
spilling onto the pavement like a burst
     vein – pulmonary. Sixty
beats a minute.

What is the pulse
insistent on the door – a
     taptaptapping firm from
         that little blue river
     vining around the wrist.
Electropherograms remind me
of the curl of a scarf

in a draft, the grace of a dancer’s
artful contortion.
Is mine not working

right?
Capillary branches
diffuse lazy
sunset reams into the monoxide
     air this yellow November,
     while the mist rises like the hem
     of a dress over countless
Evergreen ankles. I did want

to love him. Once I saw that painting –
  “The Nightmare,” with the woman
dreaming a demon on her chest, and I thought:
she came up with what
     now haunts her.

     


Emily Jahn is a double major in Biological Sciences and Poetry. She would like to work in conservation after graduation, and can often be found doing research in her genetics lab, painting watercolors, reading, or wandering around outside.