From Jump
Nicole Higgins

My left eye knowing

distress in the wings—

the meteorologist and

her rain, a little

morning conjecture.

Or any tooth doing its

Sunday night dream

thing—when they all

fall out, will I get the

news about a distant

star or my brother.

Where is the poem for

this. There are

volumes on the

science of it all—there

are grandmothers.

Keep living says mine

but I sleep late and

wake married again to

the text. I touch the

books under the

covers. Say what of

shelter. I rise and pray

nine times over

pneumonia, for the

syncope to cease at

once, amen. I am not

dressed for the day.

Nicole Higgins lives, writes, and teaches in Kansas City, MO. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Passages NorthVinylSink, and elsewhere. She is a Cave Canem graduate fellow.