BIO

James Blevins studies English and Creative Writing at the College of Central Florida.  He has worked for the college’s literary magazine, the campus newspaper, a local newspaper’s sports page; and a sports web page on the Tampa Bay Lightning hockey team.  His short story, “For All the Bending,” appears in the 2016 Scythe Prize collection available on Amazon this October. 

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Old Bottle, Green,
 
sticks out of the earth.
I wonder, while I’m sitting,
when was it last drunk?
When was the last time
fingers gripped it about
the collar, placed its mouth
to lips, drank from its cool
insides? As Summer breaks
her promises to my neck.
Tattered label worn rakishly,
stabbed to earth.  Some
remains at bottom.  I bet it’s
old whiskey.  I wonder
why he or she would leave
even that little bit there,
not drink it to the very
last drop.  Drunk enough like a
calm breeze, a promise made to
the back of my neck by a girl
named Summer—but broken,
as often is the case—broken,
and sticking out of the earth.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Robins Taught Me How to Couplet
 
Wrestled breathing to sleep, too late.  Not a wink was
Collected, instead, tabled till worried expressions
 
Contort features to bone & cartilage.  I hurry the hour
To apex; I shudder myself to storm.  Brilliance &
 
Value:  a daughter’s song sung to collars & cleft chins;
Mothers in fields, with dresses bunched into fists--
 
An hour too long, a sign—glass in origin.  It buzzes
About an open mouth, dances teasingly about the
 
Teeth.  She, a temptress, collector of man’s sigh,
Polishes her knuckles, those brusher-of-eyes, tears
 
That pool & portend to break land.  I know not of
Windows, only space left open, unprimed.  Just open.
 
As the astronaut hangs backward over the starry sky,
I hang open in equal wonder at that which is mine.
 

 A Comet’s Return
 
a comet’s
been gone
for too long
 
it wasted a day,
streaking past me,
for a second or two
 
I felt my better English
return to water--
all I needed
 
couldn't believe it’d been that long
since I'd been needed--
eyes wet prisms
 
porches with candle scars
knuckles dancing in the chill
limbs bridged over canals
 
I left lone in a night,
marked bright by a tail--
long gone
 
but I
know now how
to write a comet down