Jessica Reed


Into the middle of the mirror the middle of the butterfly the flutter of the mild tooth. Butterfly in the mirror and mirrored in it the flutter of mildness. A tooth of sadness. No sad in it. Not sad but mild in the middle of the tooth. Some sensitivity. But in the flutter of sensation of brushing. Brushing a butterfly off of a mirror. It is mirrored: a hand brushing a butterfly off a surface, a surface only touching never touching: it is too light. There is a lightness in touching a butterfly. There is a lightness in a butterfly touching a mirror. Less lightness in a hand but hands do not touch. Touch happens in the middle. There is no middle. A tooth is a severing. Not sad but mild in the middle. Touch is a flutter. Fluttering a sensation in a tooth. Tooth in a mouth tooth of a mouse and the word strange is banned. A mouse is sensitive. Between a mouse and a butterfly is a middle where they do not touch. Still, a mouse is sensitive to a fluttering. To a fluttering of a hand over a mirror, brushing a butterfly aside.








A note on "Touch": Teeth fall out. Until then, they're held in by nerves and blood vessels and cement. I am nervous mass undulating and want touch more than anything until it's too much. I have an appetite for more than what I can fit into one life. This particular poem came out like a loose tooth, not quite like the others.