Signs of Symmetry

Yesterday we walked together in the snow.
It seems self-righteous to describe

the weather
but you’re gentle, and I try to be, and when we bicker
insects dot the sky like surgical marks.

Let’s start with the text then cross to harder hearts.
Say accountability. Say stigmata. OK,

he’s in the hospital again.
Liver not cirrhotic yet. The snapdragon
supposedly

survives well in winter, and in the park M skims her phone
for a diagram comparing addiction
to social acuity.

You grip my hand and squeeze.

It means that sometimes
symmetry is a crisis. Sometimes it lies in wait for you
like a hospital bed

or a florescent bulb grown weak
in the back room.
What’s the point of pleasure, you ask, then pick the leather

at the fold of your purse.
I beg justice from the worst of our words.

Say monopoly. Say coolio.
Unsnap the straps on your backpack
and light a lemon scented candle.

If there’s something simple, let it be simple.
If there’s an ache, then take it for what it’s worth.

Jacob Griffin Hall was raised outside of Atlanta, Ga and is currently a PhD candidate in English at the University of Missouri. In the past, he has worked as assistant poetry editor for the Mid-American Review and he now works as poetry editor for The Missouri Review. His work has appeared in New South, DIAGRAM, New Ohio Review Online, The Carolina Quarterly, and other journals.