JACOB HALL
WHISTLE
In the gorge of this my body
paces. I can’t keep track of the living
or the bits of it I’m told to keep
close to the world. My list of things
to do isn’t really a list—it’s more
a figure that can’t stop growing
limbs. A reach of gaudy appendages
and people I don’t want to know
anymore. Last night I passed out
on my neighbor’s lawn because there
was a kind of air that writhed into me,
unrequited, like I had something
to learn from it—something about
a blade of grass, the way it blasphemes
rupture, green and alive, all the shit
I’m inclined to put on it. Like when I
was a kid and I would sit in the pasture
out back of the school and pull a single
blade taut between my thumbs, trouble
my mouth against it like I’d seen
other kids do. But no matter the shape
of my lips, no matter the posture of my
small fingers, I couldn’t make it whistle,
couldn’t loose that sweet pitch like magic
no matter how hard I blew and I knew
that was on me. Sitting alone in that empty
field, not whistling, just not being able
to do it—that’s where I first learned
about mortality. I thought the blade of grass
an appendage, gaudy and beautiful.
I imagined dying as an imprint abandoned
on the back of someone’s lawn. Now
when I think of god, I see a thousand
clumps of hands sprawled across an empty
field, each with a blade of grass tucked
between the thumbs, unable to make a sound.
Jacob Hall was raised outside of Atlanta, GA. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Bowling Green State University and is a PhD student in English at the University of Missouri. He has worked as assistant poetry editor for the Mid-American Review, and he currently works as audio editor for The Missouri Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in New South, The Carolina Quarterly, Menacing Hedge, Stirring, Poetry South, Santa Ana River Review, Madcap Review, and elsewhere.