-

in a landfill one day i saw an
immigrant family take an old
bed and strap it across the top
of a banged up SUV that was

missing it's left front clip, the
headlight was taped where a
socket would have held it,
like a discombobulated eyeball

clearly marked on the edge
of the mattress was the
following in Red Sharpie—

"DO NOT SALVAGE"

the same warning i remember  
writing on Momma's deathbed
decades earlier, her stain clearly
visible on one side.

there was nothing to be said, 
even if i could speak fluently
against what was apparently

—for them—

clearly accepted
terms...


s jones
Mar 2021


.

Right at the contour,

Decorative canyons of dire, descending ornaments,

Occluded with mixed smoke signals.

Those heading to their number beds,

Pray to the analytical gods,

"Dear Lord, bell curve distribution. Please, please, please..."

Eight months since the virus shut the door on the world.
It’s October and it’s like we’re hiding from the law.
You called me yesterday - but it quickly wore off.
Sometimes crushing hungers, for our old normal, blossom
but wither, like confused daffodils, denied sustenance,
in the reality of “second waves” and body counts.
This renewed viral spiral has me all wrung out.

Strings,
So finely woven
Entwined with threads of truth,
Of harsh realities
And with every cut,
The weight grows unbearable
And the unbearable becomes restless
Until you're holding onto
Latching onto
Fingers burning onto
The last string
The last standing string
- that is Faith.