poetry: jumpship, 2023

Words by Kristyn Potter

My mind is enraged, engulfed in anxiety, engorged. A frothy glass of beer flowing over its edges, men jumping ship, life thrown overboard. Stop.

Sentences tangle and unravel, unravel and get tangled, necklaces break; chains are unleashed. Strawberries and succulents prickly and satisfying, orgasmic to the touch.


My fingers are drowning in my throat, my esophagus comes up for air, lungs charred with dreams delayed, deferred, engorged and enflamed. Stop.

My breasts swell, one thousands ships at sea rising and falling, rising and falling, the Titanic swallows them up, Hades welcomes them for breakfast.


My toes curl to Elizabethan prose about someone and so and so doing such and such. Stop.

The morse code is unintelligible, illiterate, inaccessible. Stop.

Someone phone Persephone, tell her I’ve gone missing again. Stop.

Breathing shallow breaths, watching swallows encircle our breakfast, Hades somehow gets Uber Eats to the Underworld.


It’s all a mirage, a misuse, a ruse; stop.

Breathing shallow breaths, I rise from the Titanic in time for lunch.


So and so and such and such, and on and on, forevermore,

Circling the globe like Hermes in his birthday suit, searching for meaning among the stars.