Brief Magic

then the room of small things
I grew large. Respite again

in a globe of bad proportions,
of indeterminate growth,

how flora unfolds without
a plan (you don't know

how it looks or when it stops
until you find it dead—)

Where the slightest tremor may catch
in a mirror pitched just right, where

it's natural to mistake
a sheet for a meadow

because there's nothing else to bank on.
Except when that old sleight

returns me. Always abridged
and eclipsing fast

like the noon train,
the only one that comes. A faithful

and shimmering vehicle
around which to draw oneself.

Like a bed not meant
for touching, just carrying

worn weight forward:

Hanae Jonas' poems have appeared or are forthcoming in H_NGM_N, Dusie, The Volta, Sixth Finch, and other journals. She is an MFA candidate at the University of Michigan, a Kundiman fellow, and was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.