Poetry By Jill Cox

Sean Benham CC




Immersion
​

She beckons anonymity.
The sort who slips notes
into library books

               You have purpose

on paper scraps

               Dance like everybody’s watching

concealed messages

               Never too late

               You’re fantastic

more silent than silence
until the finder keeper
turns a page.

Not like fortunes
but maybe like small miracles
for consideration
as to whether or not
this whole deal was written in the stars. 

Her house sits against a tilt
beyond treetops, 
often quiet,
especially when it rains.

​




Release


I want to wrap the wounded parts
in parcels tied with strings
of helium hearts, ascending,
plump and festive-looking.

I want to wade into the yellow flowers
fastened to the grass
like buttons spilled,
toes sinking into that soft sea of them
right outside the door.

Listen. Angels who won’t speak,
or even whisper,
will sing of love, large and soulful,
inside the moving sky,
the unmoored clouds.

Shadows are our bodies
being strong enough to block the sun.
So, don’t apologize for weakness, or rage,
or things you can’t quite put your finger on,
for asking how long
before the good part comes,
and believing in a bright release
that might resemble joy.

​


My poetry has appeared in The Auburn Circle, Appalachian Review, Bitterroot, Chiron Review, and elsewhere. It's received top honors and an honorable mention in national competitions. My novel appeared in a limited-time anthology Peace, Love, & Romance, which was number three on Goodreads's list of best romance anthologies. I'm working on another. A circulation librarian, I live with my husband and groovy cat Ned just outside of Baton Rouge. 


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