Jessica Fjeld





I should very much like to be torn in two by you


One half of me to head north and

the other to begin digging

One half to gut the fish and fry them for dinner

The other to sing, it’s


something sweet, and also

something not-so-sweet

One half of me to give the other instruction

One half of me to stay in

One to make the cuts and the other to count them

One half of me all body-painted red


One on each coast,

one on every corner

Oh if the mes subdivided

Oh if they slipped through the knotty pine floorboards

I should very much like to be torn in two by you




A twin-engine plane


The point is that we do have this little umbrella,

we have its point and the shade it provides,

and if we haven’t much else, well, the sun

is out today and things are always washing up.


The ocean’s main aim is to move itself around.

Once we were blessed with the shallow space inside a shell.

The nights are cold and you are up against me.

The complication stems from continuance:


that after this there is something else, and something else,

with no space in between. There is no other place to step to.

We will sit in your furniture if you pay us.

Or if you prefer we will beat it with chains.