I write to hear myself feeling.


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



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
Your questions, not your answer


My body is not a question,

but you turn each part of me into one,

then another, and another.


who, you aren’t asking me.

You form answers to the questions you make from my body.

You form them on your lips,

You form answers,

for yourself

when you walk toward or away from me.

when you tilt your head

when your mind fills with your own stories

those you made.


You are asking me,

thinking we are speaking,

still in conversation like the flow of

our blood, resonant


You are asking



Are your questions big enough

when my body is the answer.

31poemsMegan Jones

To be both and,


To be holding releasing,


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.


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?

31poemsMegan Jones
I want movement

I have felt you with all of me.

Now all I want is inside me,


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.

31poemsMegan 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
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
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
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
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


Do I assume you don’t see me,


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
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

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