Writing

I write to hear myself feeling.

Release the object

And don’t be so obvious, deceived, your spinning orbit is nonlinear.

You are not an object.

Don’t call it daggers flying backward through time
meeting this pain with rigor.
And don’t be so obvious, deceived,

even I’ve seen, tracing you like a contour line
memorizing the slant of your eyes, your figure.
You are not an object.

You went out to prune your dead branches like a warning sign.
Cut warmth from this bed without shiver.
And don’t be so obvious, deceived.


I called you by your name, not to drink you like wine.
You are the time it takes, you are the whisper up my spine,
you are not an object.

Put your whole self on this lifeline.
Speak something true, reconsider,

and don’t be so obvious, deceived,

you are not an object.

31poemsMegan Jones

we were slipping

for a moment

could you feel it

the tilt within the turn

a falling body

pulled by a force

is love a law of the universe

this earth

a burning heart for

the mystery

of ground

31poemsMegan Jones
The Search

Standing at the edge of

an endless body
rippled or
lit up by that spinning star, enlarged.
Watching as the low dotted line,
birds, grace and glide across
the surface tension
calling and calling out the search.

And we all seek and find
the food before us,
some living satisfied by a
come what may, scavenge,
some starved and thirsty hunting
until the catch is caught
again and again on the search.

Watch their line,
these too, even birds, hunt together
moving like a song along the
edge of the world, across the water.

And could I, like a barren bed,
sinking into sand,
not yet caught up in flight
nor thrown full body
toward the edge of the end,
look and find how now
it is possible to feed
on my own heart
and still live.

31poemsMegan Jones
Now

Now as the sun, dipped into the depths

fallen toward darkness,

begins to climb back up

each notch of your spine

from her low angle across the sky,

as if from the underworld, yours.


Now perhaps we can, too,

do this returning from such depths.


Now our lips can part,

drink deep of that light returning,

slowly, say it is finished.


Now all my bones can, too,

come back together from these

years that broke.

31poemsMegan Jones
Yearning

Let me not speak.

 

Silence fed me

for this long.

 

Let me take a lifetime—

river rising, and this

thinning to the bone

 

Let me.

31poemsMegan Jones
How do I trust

In the sky

streaked with light and color and

cold, set into each bone.

In the way water freezes,

or seems to

as it streaks my face,

then steams against the screams of wind,

carving paths down both cheeks

turned to ice.

 

I am not made of solid stuff

then how do I

 

when the heat has gone out,

the last red glow of sun gone unnoticed again,

how do I trust that we are still alive,

again,

 

as my body melts into the air.

31poemsMegan Jones
How do I trust

In the sky

streaked with light and color and

cold, set into each bone.

In the way water freezes,

or seems to

as it streaks my face,

then steams against the screams of wind,

carving paths down both cheeks

turned to ice.

 

I am not made of solid stuff

then how do I

 

when the heat has gone out,

the last red glow of sun gone unnoticed again,

how do I trust that we are still alive,

again,

 

as my body melts into the air.

31poemsMegan Jones
Truth (to be what is)

How many times can a heart

break.

It is endless, just as love.

And how quickly the impulse to
unbreak
comes, like a hand grasped around
a bleeding wound.


Apply pressure first, we say,

as if healing begins as stress,

as if the laying on of hands makes

meaning

Not knowing

yet, not trusting,
that a heart does break.

It must.

I do break. I must have.

Unbreaking isn’t healing.

Stop your hands and let what will

grow deep

scar.

Let me break
and feel —endlessly, just as love.

31poemsMegan Jones
on which end of time we stand

When the time comes,

like this rain, soft

waking from dream after
dream of
earth soaked down to the bone

Layers no one ever saw, you
feel them
down through to your bones.

And I sent small things down
this river, to our deaths or
because of death.
Calling it, claiming it a blessing.

Who could know
on which end of time we stand

as if on the bank, the brink,

the edge of the end.
When bones, tender, turn to stones
then —singing down from the sky
down this river—
time, like water comes.

31poemsMegan Jones
How many tiny deaths

This shudder travels

through veins like
the lines that lead to leaves, retreating
leaf by leaf
once shaking releasing
then, returning,
focused and budding and unfurling —
this moment
— layer over layer
warm, yet shaking all over,
relaxed so deeply into
everything focused onto
and yet tense
and yet blurred and blinded and flooded

to be this,
both the death and the birth
same in this moment,
a pain deeper, unimaginable
pleasure, still deeper,
mirroring each other in
this endless dance,
until it ends.

31poemsMegan Jones
Count

Count your breaths.

Count the shadows your

moving body makes

along the path.

 

Count your days.

Count your change, dropping,

ringing like chimes,

sweet sounds confusing the chaos.

 

Count your blessings.

Count the leaves you

watch shudder, fall,

just out your window,

saying more about the wind than the tree.

 

Count all the impossible things.

Count on me.

31poemsMegan Jones
Do not chase pain (a cautionary tale)

What is it that we do,

I keep the ones who pain me

closest to my heart,

keep the ones who kill me.



We keep dying. Do I believe this

is all there is.


“But you have to.


You have to hold me, bring me close,

keep me close enough to touch
–how else would life go on,
how else would I feel any relief from

the knife I still hold in your chest.”


I draw you in, further,
and believe that somehow, I can reach

around my back and pull you
all the way through me.
If you can pass through me

then maybe we can heal.

31poemsMegan Jones