Poetry by Jordan Ferensic

The Box Containing God

After Anna K. Crooks

You don’t hear people say no offense, but… much anymore

you don’t see people rub their tummy in a circular motion

to signify hunger much anymore either and you never ever hear about

extra long guillotine blades that do sextuple murder at once and

you’ve got to wonder, is this what entropy looks like;

am I just going to fade back into space dust with a celsius in my hand?

And then there’s the nature of things, little things like do the fish in

fish sticks ever think, this is not what we meant to be,

winning an auction just means you paid the most for something,

how the feeling of heat parching the back of your throat

can be a smell and also the way you touch someone;

if I woke up one day and nothing hurt I’d probably just think I died

If my body is the box God, and my body contains God

what am I doing sitting in the motel room cuck chair again, God?

Why do I think so much about

“when this cars a rockin don’t come a knockin” bumper stickers, God?

Don’t you feel guilty

for making worms and making rain

and making worms come out of the ground when it rains

and then making sidewalks.

Once you get going it’s hard to stop and I’m complaining because

for instance, the very first word beneath idolatry in Roget’s

3rd edition thesaurus is love and I had nothing to do with that but

because I like to makeout a little, I deserve IBS?

He says one day I’ll understand, I say acab includes god fucko

so we try different ways of saying what we mean

but in the moment we aren’t really lovers anymore, just grammarians.

Jordan Ferensic


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