Jed Myers is a psychiatrist, singer-songwriter, guitarist, and poet. He studied poetry at Tufts University, where he also served as Editor for Tufts Literary Magazine. He was a Finalist in the 2004 Bart Baxter Poetry in Performance competition at Seattle’s Hugo House in 2004, and won 3rd Prize in that contest in 2005. His sonnet won 1st Prize in Writers’ Haven’s 2004 Poetry Contest. He received Honorable Mention for a villanelle in Washington Poets Association’s annual Poetry Contest in 2004, and earned 2nd Place in Seattle’s NE Library Poetry Contest in 2005. His poems have been featured on NPR, and on the web in Friends Journal, Satya Center, Tempozine, PoetsWest, E-ZAAPP, and Gazoobitales. His work has appeared in print in This, Raven Chronicles, Forum, A Shimmering Field, Poetica, Tattoos on Cedar, Drash, Fugue, and Chrysanthemum (for which he also served as Guest Coeditor). He has performed on numerous stages, including Whidbey Island’s Burning Word Poetry Festival, Seattle’s Frye Art Museum, and Seattle City Hall. He served on the Board of Washington Poets Association 2006-07, and he regularly hosts NorthEndForum, a weekly salon-style gathering for poets and musicians. He has produced, hosted, and performed in benefits for a variety of timely causes.
Born in Philadelphia in 1952, he lives now with his wife and children in Seattle, Washington, where he practices psychotherapy and teaches at the University of Washington.
Your lovely head’s willingly lowered inside the wide angle of your laptop’s jaw, identity dipped into the virtual circus lion’s maw once more, but you’re not the lion-tamer—you’re caged, netted, long teeth tugging already at your neck. Like the antelope, throat in the predator’s grip, you’re limp and numb, mercifully anaesthetized for the kill. It’s only seeing it in you I can guess my predicament, symmetrical. We once talked this time of night. We can’t now, sucked in toward the catalytic scintillations inside an etheric sphere, the stomach of a creature slouching toward the Amazon, about to siphon into its vast abdomen our last oxygen, piped in to keep us typing.
You’re in the breakfast nook. I’m here
at the dining room table. We crouch
in chairs we could brandish, poke legs into the lion’s face, keep those ghostly incisors at bay, but our fingers play on the keys, and we say nothing at all to each other for hours, nights, days.
We remember to eat something, brush our teeth, obey our clocks for work, but the ether is sweet, the new creature, our infant monster, delights us more than each other. What we once called love, once we’re consumed, our human children won’t remember.