Three Poems by Julianne Jones

You Come Back With the New Moon in Libra

I want
to speak, words
not salted
on your skin
by my lips.

You can’t have this
flesh, moon-drenched
and dirt-heavy.

My fingers sift
through my roots,
bury them in
sand-filled earth.

I watch
when you sip
your coffee, never
acknowledging that
it’s burned, never
seeing that you singed
a part of me
when you
left.

First Visit Home Upon Leaving

Kudzu infests the trees;
dirt enters every pore,
clings to valleys beneath
your hot eyes.

Heat knocks you out
cold, the air wet and heavy—
taste of aluminum on your tongue.

Delta rows of cotton
stretch beside the highway.
From the window you see roots,
your own.

Heavy is your grit heart
when you defend home,
bible thumpers and magnolias,
dirty water.



Communion

the woman
a platter of meat
the stranger
at a table

the woman turned
suspended in
shadow
her face    not old        eyes cold
her look
for a moment
veiled
she         never thought to ask

she turned back
her     cigarette    curling
he watched her    you’re getting fat here

the woman turned
you bastard
she said


Julianne Jones
 is an MFA candidate at Stony Brook Southampton, and is thrilled that these poems are a part of her thesis. Previous publications of hers can be found in the Southern Literary Festival Anthology and TSR: The Southampton Review.

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