Lois P. Jones
Her work has been published in state quarterlies, anthologies, ezines and internationally in Argentina and Japan. In 2006, she co-edited A Chaos of Angels (Word Walker Press, 2006) with Alice Pero as well as completed work on a documentary of Argentina’s wine industry. You can find her as co-host at Moonday’s monthly poetry reading in Pacific Palisades, California and hear her in upcoming interviews as guest co-host on 90.7 KPFK’s Poet’s Cafe. She is Associate Poetry Editor of Kyoto Journal.

Unmarked Grave

All I want is a single hand,
A wounded hand if that is possible.

             --Federico Garcia Lorca

Beautiful man, with your brows of broken ashes
and eyes that migrate in winter,

a hollow in your hand
where the moon fell through.

I could have kissed your mouth,
passed an olive with my tongue,
the aftertaste of canaries on our breath.

But the shriek of the little hour
is spent, and there is no road back.

The day it happened
there were no good boys
or dovecots filled with virgins,

just a sun imploding
like a sack of rotten oranges,

the scent of basil
from the grove near your home
and the piano that still waits for you.

No one will remember
the coward who shot you,
but the sheets,

the white sheets you sail on,
coming home.

First Place Winner IBPC 2008

Under the Canopy

Everything flows through me
but nothing is lost, not a drop
of wine, nor any excuses.

Across the wooden table you speak
as if you know the meaning
of my name, pour yourself like sunstorm

on a thirsty riverbed. You ask me
to bear this, to remember the scent
of apples and the green heart

of the poplar growing in endless rows.
I try to lose myself in the gaucho's ballad,
let the guitar soften time in my bones

but you spill another river of wine
in my glass, shake your head and smile
at my refusal; the delight one feels

when a voice it knows is near. If I leave
for an moment, I am afraid you will disappear.
Today is a glass half drunk, an instant
of knowing how you pour, how you pour.

In Between Lives

She lets herself be known slowly,
illuminates rooftops in slants
of ochre, bathes the morning
beasts, even as the crow repeats

its darkness. Distinguishes her shadow
by the quality of light. The way yellow
and blue tiles are polished with early hours.
She angles the shade to soften

the courtyard, the hush of fountain
in a silvered museum. A pigeon pauses
on its bottom tier, falls asleep in a pool
of her warmth. She drifts on to the next

village, lingers over fruit stands
and laundry lines. Mountains return
from where they wandered in the night.
She sees her new mother; black hair

tossed back in a blue ribbon, belly
swollen beneath a linen shift. This will
be her tiny body. She can already smell
the scent of ocean in mother's womb.

Lois P. Jones Moonday poetry reading

© 2008 Lois P. Jones

  MOONDAY HOME PAGE (Current Features)  
MOONDAY (Previous Features)  
                             MOONDAY (Upcoming Features)