Poetry By Leah S. Jones

       ​ David Brossard CC



​
PASSING THROUGH

Loading up, I fear being caught in the storm. Casements rattle
in wind lifted off the river — below a gathering gloom. Hydraulics might as well
lift me into his cherry RAM. Tips of fishing poles dance off the back
with bobbers the color of twilight dipping into the catfish pond.
 
He’s laid back driving me through town Saturday mornings. We
usually only pass through — preferring pastoral views and
one another. We are all just passing through somewhere, he says.
 
At the carwash men slap oiled rags against shined tires.
Soldiers in olive drab bodies ornament Main Street.
Several lone gulls peck food droppings in parking lots. The feral colony
that gave us raven furred Luna, wails beyond the boxwoods at the Biscuitville.
The smell of Black & Mild’s reminds me of men I dated.
An Exxon marks the edge of town. Slapdash sign for bait and tackle hangs sideways.
Men stand around laughing, asking for a light, hollerin’ you a lie!
 
The sun hangs off the tin roof of All American Military Surplus.
Traffic fades into the four way. A sheriff in a crown vic
is perched behind a billboard for the Baptist church up the way.
Bridges with lost men tucked in the underpass
often stand beside plastic flowers placed at the light pole
bent around loss.
 
The old man with his cane salvaging a grill left on the roadside
lives out by us — up the dirt path. Past the soy beans
where the abandoned school bus sits tunneled in weeds. I always
wonder how it got there and if I too am destined
to disintegrate in thickets out on the land. I am not steel. Not for
the young to gaze at my bones rusting. They won’t
hide in me as runaways or pretend I am a ship to sail them away
passing them along to the next. I will be the soil. Earth.
Bluebonnets sprouting up fence lines
in a shaft of sunlight.
Living still.
Always passing through.





CHOOSE ME AGAIN

I spent a season contemplating the curve in your smile.
The way your eyes close half—moon when you
taste. Fingers that grasp me as if I were weeds
grown up overnight, choking the roses. You say
you can’t wait to get home to me.
I wonder what you’ll do
 
If it will be quick
or slow.
Will we touch like milk
in buttered bowls?
Or be wary of all that time
has taken as its hostage.
 
The long summer is upon us.
Toads are already croaking in last frost
as gnats swarm in light hung off the roof.
The cats bury crowns against stumps
covered in a breeze from the sea
as tufts of their shed lace the fields where the ponds
come to life. I kept the inner beatings of me close.
At times I thought I may turn to stone
and you would forget how to forge me back
to us. I tried to remain the girl you left
full of grief at the gates
 
though the more miles swept open between us
the more I found myself
and here we are
about to meet again
as we are now.





TAKING NOTES ON HOW TO EXIST

When did we become this 
Cynics wondering what's the point  
of talking about stars  
if we don't have proof posted  
of us intertwined in the field. 
What of tasting sweat on lips while kissing  
if the flavor is diluted by worries of how we look 
Still so unsatisfied with curvature 
as hands are full of chemically expanded hips 
What of dirt/rock/rain absorbed into our naked bodies 
if everything becomes to good to be true 
What of simple pleasures 
sun/sound/coffee brewing/falling/getting back up. 
What of barefoot and losing yourself  
in a moment 
what of us 
what of the masterpiece of living 
unattached to whatever the hell  
everyone else thinks 
but instead 
how we love ourselves ​



​
Leah S. Jones is an Italian-American writer who grew up in Durham, North Carolina. Although temporarily uprooted as a military spouse, she loves exploring new places with her husband and three children.  Leah writes both fiction and poetry. You can find recent works with Ghost City Press, Eunoia Review, The Line of Advance Journal, The New York Times, and forthcoming in Minerva Rising Press. She received the 2019 Editor’s Choice Award with ACHI Magazine for her debut novel Diving Horses. You can find her on Instagram at @leah.solari.jones