Monarch Season by Gabriel Jesiolowski

. . . . .
                                                                                   envelope with stitching
                                                                                   arrives in late September
                                                                                   how was I ever impenetrable
                                                                                   now I am like a cloud
. . . . .
distant foghorns      I weep when I think of what you may have written today—
            rotting lettuce          the erotic stain of ivy on a brick wall
foghorns, the distance                                   between us     :     ages of grey waves
. . . . .
to travel the roads
to buy a beige jacket
            I am learning a second language
                                                                     all the salt in the air
. . . . .
your law of silence /
the red trees start up at once—a chorus     how many monarchs have I seen
they have died together these last four days
                                                           I find them floating downward in the
. . . . .
                                                there is a climate of charcoal, yarrow
                                                and dead sails
                                                they repair so few of the boats
                                                off          season
. . . . .
                         a man in a brown musty truck calls
                         fucking faggot out the window
                         and I fall into concession:
                         I could not make a dent
                         walking home from the post office box
                         even if I held onto his hitch until let go
. . . . .
                                                           we would lie in bed with
                                                           the widowed sound of foghorns
                                                           sometimes I would mount you
                                                           like a stag—
. . . . .
                         I try to taste the smoke in the snow for the fourth night
                         but find myself unequal
Gabriel Jesiolowski works in a research-based practice using installation, interventionist strategies, painting, performance, printed matter, and poetry to navigate the crossings of art, social processes and emerging practices. A discursive consideration of theories of embodiment, transgender subjectivities and nostalgia have been of particular enduring interest to his practice. Over the past ten years he has taught and collaborated on courses at Cornell University, Southern Maine Community College, Carlow College, and the University of Pittsburgh. He currently works as an independent artist, curator and as a founding member of a collective and residency program: Emergent Ecologies.