I write to hear myself feeling.

The Echo

Hearing the first

breath of this expanding

death on repeat,

even the sun will go out.

Still it has a

name written on bed sheets

an endless ending,

closing all the windows.

How is it pronounced.

The word for

exactly how many tears

absorbed in a lifetime,

bone deep soaked through

this pillow

this skin

this life on repeat.

The only one sound left

or is it the echo

31poemsMegan Jones
Miles to think

Comb the earth for

a better way to plant



It’s not spring yet


Condition the ground with

the oil of skin, water of tears

Cover the black soil.

Who knows what may come up

surprise heat

surprise sun and blue and

branches budding too soon

—so you say, only they know

and make their own time—


Dig a hole.

Put yourself inside

and walk away.


This path you’ve memorized

is in your mind

and the mind is like a river

flood her and she will be redirected,

move differently and she can

and will change.


Go home. Stay.

31poemsMegan Jones
You are like

You are like
when the room fills with
morning’s first light. And I see you.

Your feet, set into the ground
like two portals
and a great mystery flows from you
down into everywhere you stand.

Your legs carry dreams
like twin rivers, sometimes slow
sometimes swift and full of life.

Your hips form a basin
somehow, what a miracle,
containing all of your worth.

Your arms, softly extending
translating language
into touch.

Your face, like a precious stone or
the flame of a candle,
filled with endless depths.

Your neck, the soft landing for
my mouth —as if
a grace exists to turn my kiss
into the sweetening of your voice.

And your heart,
a universe,
the universe
I worship.

31poemsMegan Jones

What came up from the ground

as the day changed

time stretched between

rising and setting


the mind, this mind, mine

a dream of color and pattern

touched by your gaze


An endlessness, held.


It could go on

the dark of sky

the stars that are there then aren’t.


I’ll be there then not.

You will go on.

31poemsMegan Jones

What is need.
When nothing holds but to lay down
like the winter grasses do
or the leafing green of winter branches
sunk down deep into the heart.

Or is it keeping warm,
following the warmth
like it sometimes goes inward.

What is it to breathe.
When sunlight and moonlight
feel the same.

31poemsMegan Jones
Back to Gravity

Knocked out of time

like the light gone out

a single missed path wrought

or from age


Racing against or

toward, dimly and

how the house creaks at night

or from this wind


Breath gone out

like it was the last time

my face fell this way

toward hope


Changing some or

standing still, as you

appear out on the horizon like

you know my past


Before the clouds come

and I fall back to gravity

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 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

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,



as my body melts into the air.

31poemsMegan Jones
Truth (to be what is)

How many times can a heart


It is endless, just as love.

And how quickly the impulse to
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


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


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

31poemsMegan Jones