Poetry By Andie Jones

         ​Phoenix Wolf-Ray CC



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nothing but the essentials: clothes, dishes, choked fears, and the dog 

Did you know that you can fit an entire mother’s fear into the chest of a nine year old?
I would’ve thought it’d be too big
but we made it work the day she clambered into my music class, wrapping me in a hug
and hushed, we’re going.
No goodbyes, no last looks, just thick air filled with fading off-beat maracas and triangles.
 
                My hand in hers, heavy with naivety. My sister in her arms, anchoring us to the ground. 
                The last of her abuse shrugged 
                down her spine 
                and off her wrists. 
                The entrance to the gravel driveway, no longer ours, 
                swallowed us whole. 

                Boxes. Like a macabre pet-rock collection.
                Holding years of good morning giggles and peewee soccer games.
                Eyeshots of Mr. Bear tucked paper-football-style 
                next to the green dish towels. 
                My sister playing a game of 20-questions with our life. 
                Are we coming back? Where will we sleep? Why is dad crying?
                The tears begin to fall and I am in 
                the After.

                                I would’ve done anything to lighten the load 
                                of her newfound single motherhood. 
                                I wanted to hold all those boxes. 
                                make a fort and build a tower around us. 
                                Fold the creases around our pain 
                                and stack them up high. 
                                Let the light filter through the cracks and wash us in its certainty.
                                Take a deep breath, inflate my ribcage, and make just a little more room for that fear.
                                Maybe then she’d look at me - the same way she did when we were in 
                                the Before.

                                 But I could only trade my art smock 
                                 and daydreams 
                                 in crab-apple trees 
                                 for the title of Eldest Child. 
                                 An honor. 
                                 A badge I’d wear into my late 20s before I realized 

                                                 It’s just trauma. 

                                                 A dusty chapter in a 25 cent garage sale book 
                                                 we would all keep on the bookshelves of our hearts.

Andie Jones (they/them) is a queer and transgender nonbinary science educator living in Akron, Ohio. They enjoy playing Stardew Valley, listening to sad indie rock/pop, and eating far too much popcorn in one sitting. Their work has appeared in South Florida Poetry Journal and you can keep up with their art and bad jokes on Twitter and Instagram at @andie_the_enby.

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