Sample Poems by Eve Jones
The Adulteress to Her Husband
Years later, I still see you
at the point of my departure.
Your arms fell,
your voice tore like lace.
I had left long before. Still,
you keep entering my dreams,
a distant bell rocking in its tower.
It surrounds me,
too blunt for longing.
Something in me wants you dead.
I could be the high-necked Victorian
pacing the garden,
the letter tucked in my ruffled black breast.
That way, I could be free.
But my hands stink of blood.
Call it what you will, love –
it was love.
When I buried it
it was half-alive.
Interim
Days stirred in that heat,
We did not notice them.
Only the pale fern’s lace
To bed us, and that tree,
Infested with night-
Shriek, stunned my hand
Flung over you, before God
And the rest of it…
We rinsed while the horizon emptied.
Lived on apples and salt.
Flotsam and Jetsam
“A flock of the bathtub toys is believed to be washing ashore somewhere along the New England coast…the toys have been adrift since 29,000 of them fell from a storm-tossed container ship en route from China to Seattle more than 11 years ago.”
Associated Press, July 11, 2003
The captain of a fishing boat sees them
first. His face is long and weathered, the side
of a house at first light. The boat lilts forward,
into the huddled mass of ducks, plastic
heads nodding on the water. The captain calls
his men from cards and gin, gesturing
over the rail. In the middle of the sea,
where they are nothing, the men laugh.
What absurd hope!
The ship goes on.
The ducks sail south with their blind eyes.
Below, fish hang, thrusting in their shadows.
Cliché of the Trapped Pigeon
Half cower, half wild-winged,
it goes by in a flash of gray
when I step onto the train.
I walk straight into its wings.
The bird goes by in a flash of gray,
hovers at windows, whirling paintings,
and I walk straight into wings.
What do I know about fear?
It hovers at a window, whirling painting,
held in a blade of light,
and I know nothing of fear:
I’m not a soldier, not a bird.
Held in a blade of light,
cast-off, pinned, terror-flutter,
I’m not a soldier, not a bird.
Let me tell it honestly—
Cast-off, pinned, terror-flutter,
a woman screams as it swoops down.
I want to tell this honestly—
a blind man pokes with his blind cane.
A woman screams as it swoops down,
so it drags its wings away.
A blind man pokes with his blind cane,
dirty, one eye in the wrong direction.
So it drags its wings away,
and I lift my bags to exit.
It’s dirty, eyes rolling in the wrong directions.
The doors open, the bird sees a chance.
I lift my bags to exit,
climb the steps to the street.
The doors open, the bird sees a chance:
half cower, half wild-winged.