Poetry by Jayson Clury

 

 

FOR THOSE WHO JUMPED

 

 

 

 

 

NO ONE TOLD ME MY BED COULD FLOAT AWAY

 

The water floods,

through the thresholds of my room, 

shattering the windows from inside.

Filling the room like a fish tank,

until these down feathers

become buoyant once more. 

 

No one told me that 

all things will float away.

There goes Teddy Ruxpin, 

with fur like syrup, speechless 

for the first time in years.

Basketballs bob like fishing

lures down River Road.

 

They said I was too young

to understand disaster, as I 

climb up on shingles and cry 

towards rotor blades, as if 

they were angel wings pulling 

us to refuge. I never thought of heaven

 

having an aerial view

of Mardi Gras beads and empty bourbon 

bottles floating into the path 

of limp bodies—

unsinkable sponges, 

bloated heliotropes

at twenty-thousand feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jayson Clury is a graduate of the University of South Florida, who lives in Orlando, FL. He is receiving a MFA in Poetry in 2015.