Posts in poetry
What have I swallowed

What have I swallowed.

Your syrupy smile and lines,

lining the halls of my heart.

Don’t post me up.

I am not a cookie. I am not a drink.

I am not a candy.

But even my mother slurred my name,

sweet like medicine

to ease the pain of difference.

What is my name?

Oreo, if you see me one way.

Coffee with creamer, if you touch my skin.

White chocolate, if it’s hard to breathe.

What is my name?

The one my father gave me.

Eat your own words.

Go on they sound sweet —

I feed myself now that I’m grown.

Because I was a child once.

I swallowed two identities and

left my plate empty.

Now I feed my children

with my own blood and bones.

Clear Blood

I never saw myself

in you.

I never looked in the mirror

like I meant it.

I never expected you to

see through me.

Who am I to claim

one line and not the other,

when you see neither.

Who else will.

My blood isn’t mingled,

it is my own.

Can I see that and

expect more of you.

How would you know.

My Line is Mixed

There are layers

you slide by,

when you are your own

reference point.

But I am not on your map.

still you try to read me.

It is a weight you will never feel

and continue to press on my back.

So don’t ask me why my shoulders

medially rotate, caving in my


So don’t tell me to lift my chest,

lift my chin and

stop using you as a reference.

I’ve lived my entire life by your storyline,

the one you write on my skin, of my name, about my hair

and voice, and concerning the biology of my heart.

Your line is one thread leading you back home.

My line is a multitude, a war, a vast


I stand in the middle of myself

and still you do not see who I am.

The Sun and Moon are Lovers

This love wakes me, early

as you rise to

kiss the face

of your lover.


She doesn’t wait for you.

You each dance your own

cycles across the sky.

And your dance gives love

a depth I haven’t known.


Looking east to west,

I stand and sit and bow in witness.

Teach me how to love like that.

poetryMegan Jones
On Spring

Does it hurt?

To come out of that seed, that dark cave of your being

and into the sun—

To stretch every part of yourself until

you are changed, or maybe just because

you are happening

right now.

Do you allow this, is it easy?

How do you do it, all this

letting go and growing.

Is this what non-attachment looks like

poetryMegan Jones
Life (a spring song)

What is this life

that wriggles and shakes

bites and savors. 


Like the dried out stalk

taking on new growth,

always adorning our

deepest wounds with 

flowers in spring, fruit for ripening. 

Always burning skin in summer.

poetryMegan Jones
On Gravity

It is gravity that holds you here,

holds you down.


And what of all this fighting to fly?

As if fear is what the ground is made of,

and to be down

is a certain form of death.


But it is gravity

that you love and live with.

The ground of all your constructed stability

and the literal, rough or soft,

ground under your feet.


So why do you look so sad,

saying you are down, held down, low,

bottomed out.


It is gravity.

poetryMegan Jones
Love is a paradox

How do I go on believing

when all of my senses are gone.

I see you,


in the shape of things.

The way oil and water

touch hands and

are not consumed.

I think of you,

all the time.

The arch of my life

is you.

It is not enough

for you to be in my mind’s eye.


it is you calmly

holding all my trusting, faith, and


As big as that

She says

there is a universe

in my eyes,

and her love is

as big as that.

I see

an ancient tree

in her eyes,

the kind home to

a universe of life

and her love is

as big as that.

Night vision

I have night vision.

I am electricity, visible and invisiblelight.

I see my own darkest night.

And I glow.

I wrap the cloak of night

around the paradox of my body—

secured, clasped together

at my throat.

I open my senses

and all the available light

pours in, filling the ground.

Flesh and bone

Are you


Every cell



with electricity and


It’s the

way your breath fills up

to your cheekbones,

the softness of your eyes.

It is you,

your flesh and bone.

You’re flesh and bone.