By Jacob Reina

Since this pillar on which we both lean leans
Toward a sea even bleaker than ourselves,
With its twin sky, high and held
By the unstilling ripples
That resemble trembling hands—those
Of some old man, weak and sallow
From the weight of defeat
Crushing his shoulders,

(Never could I show you anything more broken
Than the spirit of a proud man shamed to ruins)

I will tell you of its impending topple, into
A bottomless abode marked by infestations
Of eight-legged martyrs —shells all broken
And captured by the sun that pierces
The surface, lying there, quaking
Like the remnants of some body
Crushed by disappointment

(I would share with you the secret well
From which I source such knowledge, but…)

About the Author

Jacob Reina is an undergraduate English student at Fresno State, where in 2023, one of his short stories won the Fresno Friction Prize. His work has been featured by New York Quarterly, The Banyan Review, Gabby & Min Press, Watershed Review, Rougarou, and Clackamas Literary Review. His first memoir, Purity of the Sky, is set to be released in 2024.