Ars Poetica: An Ode to Let it Live

I’ve never understood                  the term rolling 
hills. But if this      car were to roll and barrel 
off this highway into a backyard, tearing 
Earth, each piece       of grass pulling 

        the rims with everything they have 
till their fibers fall     apart, and we don’t 

       slow down, breaking             through the side 
        of a small house, I wonder if there’d 
 be peace.                Or pieces. Or if we were 

to stay on tarmac, I would                             notice the wet 
                 rock face as I clear                         my throat; mucous mixed 
                                with blood and spit                   in the back of my mouth 

tastes sweet and it’s got                   no place            to go, so it’s just 
                               displaced for now. I hack again, and we’re 100 miles 
from home. The trees we pass are chimes amiss 

                                in the wind. The endless        clearing made for decrepit 
power lines is something beautiful we built. Like the pond, I didn’t 
                 get to picture, and that’ll live on only in these words that may 

                              never be read. Or I'll let myself drift 
    into the other lane to see what happens.

until its green goes away.

I want to grab bundles 
of your body, to burrow and bury 
myself in your flesh. Starting 
at the back, I’d break through to find 
canals and cavities no 
one’s ever seen. Maybe 
along the way, I could see 
the root of this craving and carve 
it out with a scalpel. You’d request 
to be dyed during my spelunking 
because of a comment 
I made about the world only 
meaning when it’s green. So 
I’d scrape off or discard all 
that didn’t make you round 
or appealing, and you’d be left 
colored and blue. You’d think 
it’s what you want, but I’d think 
it’s what I made you 
want. I’d parade you about on a stick until you 
rotted. Then I would lock you 
in a closet between denim, participation 
trophies, and cobwebs till I grew 
bored of your valleys and hills, your cracks 
and craters. At that point, you would be 
scrapped for parts, left in a landfill to lie 
in humid muck with rats and trash. As herrings 
or crows circle your new bed, I’d begin to sculpt 
the new you, the one that’d matter

I could write about a flower,

but what’s browning is more 
appealing, like the burnt edges 
of paper. A letter? We’ve heard 
the words of love a thousand 
times, but can only feel what 
this long life has let us. So I won’t 
write. Instead, I’ll scribble or outline 
what I imagine your brow to be, not 
your brown eyes; those are dangerous. 
I’ll gently lay you down 
in tulips. I’ll let you fall fast 
and scrape. I’ll punch the ground 
till it breaks at the fault and consumes. You’ll float 
until you find the orange heart 
or the other side.

ZACKARY JARRELL

Zackary Jarrell graduated from Salisbury University, majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing. He is the former captain of the Salisbury University Ultimate Frisbee Club. He has had poetry published in his school’s literary magazine, The Shore, and the Oakland Arts Review. He is a former poetry editor of 149 Review. He was born in Christiana, Delaware, and grew up in Elkton, Maryland.