Posts in 31poems
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
To the ever turning world

To the ever turning world

and the hope of each new dawn

 

I give you the parts of my arms, sore

The taste on the backs of my teeth, gritty

The calm of my bed,

 

in the exact moment you wake me

kissing my eyelids with your

changing

light like a lover’s lips, a mother’s lips

Like you’ve known love yourself

can’t help but move like love moves

even when we are burning.

 

You’re turning.

Your turning.

Turn, and teach me

even unto death.

31poemsMegan Jones
Disappointment

There was a time when

All I held between these two hands

Was soft

 

Did life change or

my hands

 

Now all I touch

crumbles like ashes of a once living thing

 

Are we worms,

turning, consuming, changing the world

back to food for some other life,

hiding from the light,

playing our part in the

cycle.

 

Am I like those two eyes,

bitter, longing,

turning you to stone.

 

Am I like the sour boiling,

fermenting which could

in one way become your

intoxication or your sustenance,

and in another

rotting and filling you with

a smell ripe yet close to death.

31poems, poetryMegan Jones