Writing

I write to hear myself feeling.

Blend

To be both and,

all.

To be holding releasing,

generating.

Say this is more than

two variables coming together,

addition like that makes

an absence or

an infinite possibility out of

what was

to make what is or will be,

to make this,

this one.

To be a spiral, holding both no beginning and end,

and all the beginnings and ends.

And you and I together

aren’t one.

And we are.

Touching.

Agreeing, believing we are agreeing

seeing, reflecting.

Becoming part of one,

Our hearts shaping each other, as one.

To be unbound.

Is that the same as free?

poetryMegan Jones
I want movement

I have felt you with all of me.

Now all I want is inside me,

moving.


I want

movement, I want

my own blood, autonomous. I want

To take my breath away, be new.

To feel my gravity,

out from under your gaze.

I want out.

—I want movement.


Everything moves.

I am movement. Remember.

poetryMegan Jones
Do I assume

I woke up before the train came

remembering all the moments

or one in particular

when self advocacy was lost on my lips


dripped down my throat to be

swallowed with the years,

the lifetimes of

living in the shadows, silent.


It was there, too,

as a student being told to

face a standing group of

classmates and teachers

and speak from my heart.


Well, I didn’t. I couldn’t.

And what if I had screamed like

I want to now.

Did you? Could you?


Am I used up on

you.


Do I assume you don’t see me,

or

do I never claim myself in front of you.

I am Mixed, poetryMegan Jones
My friend Memory

The gifts that flew from my hands,

young and reckless.

Soaring now,

gliding now through the air

on some other wings.


But I hold them all in my heart.


Memory like an old friend of mine.

She calls when she pleases,

and leaves me on hold for hours

or days or years,

while she switches the laundry.


It’s the gift of marked days,

remembered days

marked in time and in my body.

When a thing set out as joy,

dove down to the underworld,

came up for air

translated into a date.


I hold them, and am learning,

slowly over the hours

or days or years,

how to let them fly.

Megan Jones
Isn’t that something

I’m choosing play.

I’m being surprised, feeling it.

I’m not getting my shit together, but I am figuring out where the piles are.

I pulled up so many roots today. Isn’t that something.

notesMegan Jones
To Venus

Flowers, round and soft and

running over with

a smell more like a taste, or

 

Have you ever felt a smell?

Let it ring or ripple or wander across

your skin,

part your lips.

And though the fingers you touch with

are themselves endlessly soft, sensitive,

the feeling of

this smell

breaks open everything you thought possible

about softness

about eagerness and the way joy

couldn’t possibly but somehow is

filling each cell of your being.

 

And when my nose left that flower,

the color and quality of light slipping into memory,

the smell

is still with me, even now.

 

That is the kind of beauty that calls me.

That is the kind of beauty

that changes the world.

 

Have you ever felt beauty like that?

poetryMegan Jones
Before the storm came

Before the storm came, I took my own lightning to the river and sent it off through the hallways of trees until it was lost in the moving of light, the moving of water.

I saw this spiderweb come in and out of being.

I stood, barefoot, and let my heart drain into the strong pull of water until I could no longer feel my own legs.

I left something behind and have already forgotten what it was like to hold.

notesMegan Jones
I tied my tongue

I tied my tongue to a lamp post

and spoke this song with

my heartbeat instead


I burned a bridge in my mind

and the flames filled my lungs first

shaking every blood cell


And what was contained

pressed against my temples

cut to the bone

and further, turned my whole body to ash

to an endless swirling


He pulled my tongue into his mouth

and used my own voice to speak love to me


I swallowed a poison in my mind

and this death came quick straight through

sweating out of my skin


And the energy rises still

up from this holy temple

under my feet,


I kissed the mouth of my enemy

who would have me turn the flame into

tension, endless pain


I took my body as a weapon,

gently folding over

muffling the explosion

that ripped through my being

to spare us all the intensity of my love.

Megan Jones
Go

Go, stand in the river where

the water runs clear and swiftly

Where the current is the strongest

and feel it

your own strength.

Bend to let your fingertips be moved

until the rain comes. 

Then walk yourself back home,

How do you stay open like the water

Rooted, not in the earth, but inside every cell of your own being

Held in the air, in the fire.

poetry, notesMegan Jones
A body of water

My soul was singing.

Those moments, brief and sometimes surprising, when everything’s a mirror. And the seeing blends into being. And everything, everything feels so close.


Floating in this wild body of water —salty lips, endless movement. The grieving and rejoicing meet each other, face to face.

notesMegan Jones
When all else fails

When all else fails,

as it does,

go stand in water that moves.

Everything moves.

Be still long enough

and you might feel it.

And if you don’t, know it all feels you waiting.


When in doubt,

as you are,

sit on a seat of stone and

eat strawberries.

Slowly,

lifting the green leafy handle to

hold. Holding your mouth softly

taste whatever you will.

And if you don’t, know that

you are more than your own mouth.


When you are afraid,

look outside yourself

and watch how the small fish swim,

aiming their whole selves.

And where is your whole self,

if not right here.


That is enough.

poetryMegan Jones
Wind behind your heart


There is a wind blowing

behind your heart


The same air

filled these lungs

filled the space between

each movement,

moment, memory.


The same breeze blew

through the hair of your

child, sleeping finally on a bed of earth.


The same air.

This air

spread like wings, rippled like water

around the body of your hate

aimed straight to the heart,

in words just the same as plated lead.


And still the air fills you.

Though your every cell aches

for the end.

This wind, the same one,

fills your heart with blood

and your lungs with life.

poetryMegan Jones