Jay Artemis Hull

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Communion
I’ve been thinking a lot about driving and how far a tank of gas will get me. About eating mozzarella sticks in cities I’ve never been to, paying in cash so no one knows where I am. How long before someone starts looking. I’ve been writing a lot about dissolving. Slowly releasing influence as I spend less time answering texts and more time writing in notebooks. I’ve been singing a lot about love. Which is funny, because I think I’ve only felt that maybe once. If you don’t count that summer in Saugatuck, falling for the lake. I think if I actually did take off, I would go back there. The city beach after dark, no one around but the waves and the bats and the big lake air. I would wade into the water, the waves lapping higher and higher, wicking up my jeans, the tingling as they reach my waist. Tightness of breath as the cold wraps around my chest. The moon watching in love or horror as the waves and I collide. The bats circling in their hunger dance, oblivious to the communion below. I’ve been dreaming about disappearing. About those empty moonlit crests and the bats, ever hungry, ever circling.

Conjurers
We are angry,
the storm and I.
Wind rips through alleyways
to the sound of thunder;
feet hit gravel
in time to the beat.
We are dangerous.
Gathering power
from heat of asphalt
and rhythms of earbuds.
Clouds piling around buildings
with warning flashes.
Head set into the wind,
giving a snarl.
Unapproachable
with teeth and lightning bared.

Cricket Woods
In the cricket woods,
the insects chirp in daylight.
If you pass by the ghost spot,
where the air is noticeably cooler
than anywhere else around,
you’ll find the crying hollow.
If you need a moment
to lay down in the trees,
take your time.
The ash are happy to murmur
soothing nothings above you.
As you listen for the quiet sounds
of fall leaves finding their way to the ground
or creatures exploring the deer field behind
or your own soft emotions seeping into the air.
When you have given your tears to the trees,
you can follow a deer path
to the wood frog puddle,
where a solitary frog
gives a tentative croak.
Or you can return to the ghost spot
and continue onwards to the bat marsh
where the fuzzy night swallows
will wheel in circles above you.
They won’t mind if you sit a while
watching their hunger dance.
Do you mind if the insects
provide the music?


Read our interview with Jay Artemis Hull here.


Jay Artemis HullJay Artemis Hull is a soon-to-be-graduating student at Michigan State University most likely to be found writing in odd places or wandering around in the woods. They also like to post mini-poems on their blog, verisimilines.tumblr.com.