Jesica Davis
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Jesica Davis (she/her) is a poet and technical writer from Chicago. She’s an Associate Editor for Inverted Syntax whose work has appeared in The Laurel Review, Zone 3, streetcake magazine, Stoneboat, Storm Cellar, and other places. Sometimes she makes poemboxes, which sculpturally interpret her words. Find her on Twitter @j3s, Instagram @__j3s__, and jesicacarsondavis.net.
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Substitute for a Lost Future
I watch gilded wallpaper fade. We haunt
each other. What that means. There is
longing here. A patina
creeps across the face
of remembrances no longer shiny yet
still situated on a shelf of all the selves
on display, past surprises
for the future to diffuse. These days
it’s either we’re all gonna die
maybe even soon
might-as-well-start-smoking again nihilism
or I must train this body to sustain a run
for when the revolution comes. Hours
widen cracks between like ice
splitting pavement across a season. Tonight
we blow your bonus check
on fancy wine, rare steaks, speak
of travel plans we’ll never make. Escape
can take many forms. I stare, hungry, at pictures
of space: stars and nebulae, the place
where the moon should be when it’s gone
missing stay up late to paint
a giant silver orb
across my bedroom wall,
just in case it never comes back.
Just in case.
each other. What that means. There is
longing here. A patina
creeps across the face
of remembrances no longer shiny yet
still situated on a shelf of all the selves
on display, past surprises
for the future to diffuse. These days
it’s either we’re all gonna die
maybe even soon
might-as-well-start-smoking again nihilism
or I must train this body to sustain a run
for when the revolution comes. Hours
widen cracks between like ice
splitting pavement across a season. Tonight
we blow your bonus check
on fancy wine, rare steaks, speak
of travel plans we’ll never make. Escape
can take many forms. I stare, hungry, at pictures
of space: stars and nebulae, the place
where the moon should be when it’s gone
missing stay up late to paint
a giant silver orb
across my bedroom wall,
just in case it never comes back.
Just in case.
Commentary
Jesica on “Substitute for a Lost Future”:
I wrote this poem in the Before Times, back in 2017, while I was still in a disintegrating marriage and living in a city I didn't yet understand I needed to leave. Now, in late 2020, this piece takes on a different cast: the concept of a lost future has expanded from personal to global, and temporality has become even more slippery. We all contain nesting dolls of identities that surface as needed, shifting and mutating in response to external and internal events. Who do I need to be today to get by? Adaptation is a form of survival. Escape can take many forms.
Editor-in-Chief Christine Taylor on “Substitute for a Lost Future”:
When Jesica’s poem came over the transom, we commented, “Yep, that’s all of us now.” The following section of the poem best sums up how I personally have been feeling for the past several months now:
These days
it’s either we’re all gonna die
maybe even soon
might-as-well-start-smoking again nihilism
or I must train this body to sustain a run
for when the revolution comes.
Some days I’m “training”; most days I’m “smoking.” Most nights, I sit by the fire out back and pretend that nothing bad is happening. It’s just me, my aging dog, the rotten-ass stray cat, and stars.
I wrote this poem in the Before Times, back in 2017, while I was still in a disintegrating marriage and living in a city I didn't yet understand I needed to leave. Now, in late 2020, this piece takes on a different cast: the concept of a lost future has expanded from personal to global, and temporality has become even more slippery. We all contain nesting dolls of identities that surface as needed, shifting and mutating in response to external and internal events. Who do I need to be today to get by? Adaptation is a form of survival. Escape can take many forms.
Editor-in-Chief Christine Taylor on “Substitute for a Lost Future”:
When Jesica’s poem came over the transom, we commented, “Yep, that’s all of us now.” The following section of the poem best sums up how I personally have been feeling for the past several months now:
These days
it’s either we’re all gonna die
maybe even soon
might-as-well-start-smoking again nihilism
or I must train this body to sustain a run
for when the revolution comes.
Some days I’m “training”; most days I’m “smoking.” Most nights, I sit by the fire out back and pretend that nothing bad is happening. It’s just me, my aging dog, the rotten-ass stray cat, and stars.
