One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.

Unnamed Season

Jules Travers

He lives in a peaceful territory

of his own,

relatively well-defined.

In conversation with his selves,

he navigates daily weather,

rainbows,

mirages,

sinkholes.

Now,

can he still live with himself,

with you?

Your eyes align,

two shapes of water join, sun-lit,

know themselves reflected.

He feels your arms.

He broadens,

flattens

and retreats,

enters spaces filled by air

and phantom.

He waits, he listens.

Voices surface.

He slips into marrow

lit by the gasping mouths

of scattered self-sustaining fires.

He fractures.

He falls.

He pools heavy,

turns, raw, smolder.

He scratches notes

and demolishes boxes of tissues.

While you drink your morning

coffee in the next room,

he makes his blanket

a mourning shroud,

he hibernates

in jumps and starts.

He heaves open jammed windows,

specks of old white paint confetti his hair.

Curtains bloom.

Now,

he perches on the roof.

Now,

he shows you proudly,

with some astonishment,

there’s a new row of feathers

in his wingspan --

pocked with blushes

and frowns of color,

asymmetrical, but his,

a wave of growth unique to your shared ecosystem,

brought forth

by an unnamed season.

More from Jules Travers ↓

• @jules_wordspics on Instagram
• You can read more of their writing on their Linktree

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