Jess Wigent

Sober or not, I am yours

I am not lost
San Francisco
Is where I live

Here it rains
In doorways underneath
Awnings

San Francisco
Is not a light
I become accustomed

I was a tulip once with butterflies
For pubic hair, bumblebees like
Warm dark places

Like a stone
San Francisco
In my shoe

What My Horoscope Informs

It’s not considerate to masturbate
in my childhood backyard.  Henry Miller
offends the verdure of my mother,
who has not ever not been on her back. 
There’s no comfort in this supine position: 
I think she’s trying to blind my mind.

It’s not considerate to pretend
there’s no one there, to whisper
while my father replaces storm windows:
“Do you dare me to sit in the saucer?” 
George Bataille in reply says, “Jessica
I dare you.”

Organ of Special Sense, To The

The heart’s apex inclines towards the left side
But the tongue consists of symmetrical halves
Separated underneath, tip, side, dorsum free
One tendon to the lower jaw connected taut

You do not know there is a bone in the tongue
My tongue is one bone unattached
You do not see there is a bone in the tongue
My tongue is deadly, keen, hunting rumors, long guilt

It may be removed with scissors
Transfixed with silk ligatures
Pulled from the mouth
Base cut through, short snips

My tongue hides musical wickedness underneath
It exists

Jess Wigent is mostly focused on her Ph.D. in English and Creative Writing at the University of Denver. She’s mostly mostly focused on sweeter dreams of Harry Mathews and her love of all things Oulipo.

“Once, on a front porch, on a street named Castle Creek, in a small town in Oklahoma, I worked a kazoo wrong. I inhaled. There were spiders inside. I inhaled spiders. As a result, I inspect every kazoo that has since come my way.”