Jaria Gordon

An Edict

quiet ain't kin

until extinguished

your humming fridge croaks

far before evening

can shake good night

tolling the dark living 

in this cavernous room

into bunches of laughter 

nibbling at


spread so wide

one's eyes spot absence

while mama teaches chess

until the red and black melt

into loosely spattered tiles

only the whites of teeth lucid

before finger pads sign

across abridged walls

spackling slightly and grooved 

into chewed nailbeds

the blindness stores itself

and maybe the urge to pee

wouldn't brood 

if your thirst wasn't loudest 

of all but you 

squat the ache away

dip your wash cup into the bathtub

for a drink, leaving more than you take

then salamander across the floor

clothes toppling from the linen closet

turtle your arms inside the mask

of your pink flowing night dress

shrub your toes above the edge

to best the chill 

and the most you can do

is wonder how long it takes

before the sun reaches beneath

every door slit to call for the living

and when it may ever be your turn

to forget 


Born and raised in Lexington, Kentucky, Jaria Gordon is a mother, poet, and endeavoring novelist. In addition to attending "The Twenty," she was a creative writing student in the summer intensive, the Governor's School for the Arts. She lives and works in Lexington. 


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