Poetry by jp thorn

     lisbokt CC





we all have our own history of migration
after josé oliveraz

“if i wasn’t hunted i’m afraid i’d feel alive”  ~ellora

did i arrive here by palanquin or hurricane or dust storm, was it a wrong turn on the trans siberian jersey turnpike, was i the plastic bottle mixed in w this week's trash somebody noticed & plucked w purpose? i love purpose. i crave intentionality, the engine that fuels my little loves into the here & now. i love purpose– seed to sapling, sheep to sweater, a missed 5 am flight that incidentally pairs me inamorata & together we lay over atlanta, sprawled above the city, hand-in-hand– we create a new atmosphere where most are welcome. i say most because i love purpose & to be here w us in this ozonic bliss you cannot bring ill intent. when the journey finally meets the destination it all seems to begin again, just like that silly sun w its toddler games, the moon, an un-seducible siren. wax, wane, pull the water from my cells if someone i love needs it more right now. i can afford the discomfort & will tend to a self-created wound, if it means i still retain purpose i would backbend over continents just to bridge any divide.

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duck, duck, gray duck

we awake w five minutes to spare, brush teeth, check mirror to see if smile is real– it is. when i say real i mean organic, something that has allowed itself to self-nourish then flourish after each for-your-eyes-only note or affirmation delivered thru our root systems. some say: idea! some say: this is how a forest begins to develop, an acorn in my pocket inscribed w how can i help? a maple leaf letting its colors change in vivid, visceral transparency for each & all to witness.

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wagon wheel

as an embryo, i was sacred–
not in a pro-life sense but moreso
set aside, saved for something
greater than my fetal self, another’s
personal mecca of which they were
deprived, mother’s umbilical pull.

despite the pilgrimage & what losses
emerged along the way; displacement 
within a body. surely there were dead 
oxen & dysentery on my arizonian trail;

do i call my non-blood predecessors 
brother or sister? do they call me usurper 
back from just beyond a veil? watch my
birth as a woman experiences first
love for the actual first time?

infatuation could start a rapture
& back then i was clean enough
to be baptized, to be eaten off
the branch. today i bathe to 
remind myself shame has no
currency in my home. alone,
that is a jagged mantra with
a tendency to stick in my throat.

cut the chords; it is time to tell
you my story & thank you all 
for at least pretending to care,
forever fearful there isn’t another 
waiting listen, to follow, to smoke 
signals from smolders of kingsford
both a vanguard & an afterthought
left behind in phoenix, az, 1989

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jp thorn is a queer, neurodivergent artist raised in & returned to the south. you'll usually find them in a peaceful flow state of adhd hyperfocus or ping-ponging between cat parent & hobbyist. advocate for de-stigmatization & radically-open communication, their work is largely inspired by identity, reframing traditionalism, therapeutic processes, unlearning patriarchy, humanness, & global patterns. you can find more of them here