Jacob Martin

THE ROOT OF IT

Pebbles bronze in lightening
night split by day’s dart
how the storm reveals
what was hidden as instincts.

SO THERE’S GUITAR

through Sunday drawn shades,
like being dropped off
in a strange city—to hear it
this time through the vents.

The neighbor, he used to practice
late hours in the warmer months
when windows left open let in
those final stuttered scales.

She’d knead the back
of my shoulder, arm
a harness across my chest
like she knew I had one foot

in the ether and she’d say
at least he kept on trying. I’d say
that’s all the angels can do (knowing
still, his daily effort was no good).

___________________________

Jacob Martin writes his poetry and fiction out of Crown Heights in Brooklyn, NY, where he lives with no cats and a roommate. His work has also appeared in Birmingham Arts Journal, LA Miscellany and Mad Poets’ Review. He has a BA in English from Loyola Marymount University and MFA from Sarah Lawrence College.