The furniture was Oaxacan wood
finished in plum, red blood
with brightly painted finials
haunting little animals

a lazy, creaking fan
whirred on, above
in gasping bursts, too tired
to cool the room
and only moved
the paper bougainvilleas
glowing - orange, peachy, red

my feet, ever ecstatic to meet
the cool of clay saltillo tiles
red faced, happy to have escaped
into this mirage,  my one thought
being margaritas

-

a fixture for a canvas
of words that spatter
like mud thrown upon
a concrete wall

creaks like ice coated
branches from such
weight and is then

topped off with finials,  
failures of preambles,
rambles and scrambles,

—

the legs snap and the
easel falls to the floor
with a slap—

imprinting the surface
with an exact opposite

that someone in passing
thinks should be a good
fit for a reading...


s jones
2021

.

to be a bird of great wing,
pulling across the folds
of cloudy space

intimately familiar of each
turn between misty
white finials

with a quick flap—
out of reach,
into the opening of a
grey mountain—

evading the glimpse of
all but the sharpest
earthbound
eye...


"that space between mists"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

In an aisle of a great stone church
by flickering light of candles perched
under finials and arches tinged with gold,
flags fly for blood shed on fields of old:
They wave with wistful dreams of war
and tell of great esprit de corps
in a house made holy for a prince of peace
whose dreams of love they speak of least