2 poems
by Jordan Ranft
sonnet for before I was med-stabilized
I was unaware of the door until it unlocked with a clack
and swung apart like a jaw, and where a mouth opens
breath tends to follow. How best to explain this glittering
chemical inhalation? How better to describe the absence?
Imagine the brain not as a single lump but a composite–
a swarm–how was I to know what piece was missing?
What I’m trying to say is harmony hides its own efforts.
I spent a lot of time chasing an echo that sounded like me,
or maybe I was the echo, part air and part sound. Either way
I was flung into space and broke apart against the wall.
I can hear you ask already about the wall. What is the wall?
If you have to ask I’m not sure I can help you…
You’ve cobbled yourself together before or you haven’t;
let’s restart. it can’t be called a wound if you were born with it
we take our friend to a Chinese restaurant the day his brother dies
a bell above the door chimes
its little voice indifferent.
the patio lush with potted ferns
beckons with swooping strings
of lights, but you sit inside
where the air is hot and thick
with garlic.
every minute wears a shroud
across its face. pink napkins
unfolded in your laps, scooping at
a mound of rice with scattered peas
that glisten and refuse to blink. you
avoid asking the same question
for a fifth time.
a plate breaks in the kitchen. Your
throat is full of gristle. steam haloes
above your tea and blank flames
chew their way through you. finally,
the pork arrives, red and sticky.
is being here enough?
you only have the wrong words.
the rice is gummy now; you
poke at it with a fork. if someone
put a gun to your head
you still wouldn't remember
how it tasted.
Jordan Ranft is a Best of the Net and Pushcart-nominated writer. His chapbook, Said The Worms (Wrong Publishing), was published in 2023. He has individual pieces published in Cleaver, Carve, Beaver, Eclectica, Bodega, Bayou, Rust + Moth, and other outlets. He lives in Northern California where he works as a therapist.
