by Margaret Lacey Jones
Pull skies closer she says. We’ll pluck the moon
from its sphere. But the night is still unsure,
undone. She hears an elegy too soon.
Sway down to me she says. These stars endure.
The wind stirs. Space eludes us. Pulls her mind
from its sphere. But the night is still unsure,
won’t fall onto this fallow ground. We bind
her blades to grass, so she will stay here where
the wind stirs. Space eludes us. Pulls her mind
from shadows that are beginning to tear.
We trace our thumbs through ashes. We reduce
her blades to grass, so she will stay here where
the stars hang stagnant, where their sky comes loose.
Pull through, pull down, a cross. Then she slips through.
We trace our thumbs through ashes, we reduce.
Everyone’s scared to swing from nooses.
Pull skies closer she says. We’ll pluck the moon—
Pull through, pull down, a cross. Then she slips through,
undone. She hears an elegy too soon.