Circuitry by Janine Joseph

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend February 4, 2016   Circuitry   Janine Joseph

I.   The rung wide              receiver forgets why   he set his keys on the football field.              Whose are they? he asks—a ringing   in his ear—while clenching              the green. As if on the edge   of a pool, he tilts his head to drain              water out of his canal.   It was like that, all the time,              after. How many fingers?   he was asked, and not to tell              a lie—it would mean his career.   It would mean recognizing you              without your jacket when you   walked out of the room. It would mean              you could say, Stay here   with me, and in his eyes              could watch him come back.     II.   I spiral the parking lot, singing,              It’s alright, I’m alright,   while I count the pole lights back              to my car. I practice red, table, lamp   with a neuropsychologist and now              I can tell you about how my brain   blew in the acceleration. I was in              a locked position—the details   unbearably clear in the replay and, still,              no one else heard me swallow   the impact. Bend at your hips              from your two-point stance and, there,   the muffler is a finger wagging              one one one inches from the ground.   The tire-less car rests on its crutch              of blocks, the windows a crunch   of glass. Are you feeling the rush now              as you look to me, your brain still   in your head—is it still in your head?              Can you point for me where   it happens in the connection, where              on the line the old equipment   resets itself and loops?              Is what you say the truth?            Copyright © 2016 Janine Joseph. Used with permission of the author. About This Poem   “In December of 2008, I was rear-ended at a stoplight by a sedan that the police report estimated was going 50-70 mph, based on the resulting damage. My brain shook in its case and though facets of my personality—particularly my sense of humor—remained intact, the following days, weeks, and months were marred by aphasia, vertigo, and anger, among other symptoms. To this day, what I find most remarkable about that experience is how I woke up one concussed morning and, without understanding what it meant, suddenly remembered that I was a poet.” —Janine Joseph   Janine Joseph is the author of Driving Without a License (Alice James Books, 2016). She teaches at Weber State University and lives in Ogden, Utah.     Poetry by Joseph   Driving Without a License (Alice James Books, 2016) "Imaginary Hollywood" by C. D. Wright "A Supermarket in California" by Allen Ginsberg "Last" by Maxine Scates Poem-a-Day   Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-a-Day features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends. Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.   You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038