By Sarah Jones
A Madrona tree, with its peeling bark
and banana-shaped leaves, leans out
over Penn Cove against a pillow of gray sky.
Around the tree’s trunk, a gnat
pumps her white wings again and again
while cove water tongues the purple pits
of mussel shells. Why does a body
barnacle itself to things? A rolled
joint on a coffee table. Bag of meth
inside a purse pocket.
A mother’s body to a father’s fist. I had a
parakeet once survive a night in the mountains
only to return to her cage in morning.
Sometimes thrumming water is a knocking
that engulfs my eardrums. Sometimes I want
even soundless wings to stop their beating.
Copyright Jones 2016
Sarah Jones is a poet and freelance writer living in Seattle. Before joining the Poetry Northwest staff, Sarah was an editorial intern with C&R Press and an assistant poetry editor of Lunch Ticket and Soundings Review. Sarah received her MFA in Poetry from Antioch University, Los Angeles. Her work has been featured on NPR and The Bridge. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Entropy magazine, The Normal School, New Ohio Review, The Raven Chronicles, American Literary Review, Yes, Poetry, and many other places. Dancing girl press & studio will publish Sarah’s first chapbook in April 2018. You can find her at www.sarahjonespoet.com | Twitter: @writer_sejones |Instagram: @writer.sejones.
All work by Sarah Jones
