Hannah Lee Jones’s poetry and nonfiction have appeared or are forthcoming in Superstition Review, Literary Orphans, Apogee, Yes Poetry, Cider Press Review, and Orion. She edits Primal School, a resource for poets pursuing their craft without an MFA, and lives on Whidbey Island in northwest Washington.
In the field’s cratered center sits an abandoned house.
We’ve pulled ourselves from the backwaters,
stand in the marshes watching hawks fly over.
See the vole in that one’s talons, like the wind’s collusion with grief?
It is the girl in that car crying there’s a demon beside her.
There’s nothing there, there’s nothing there, her father keeps saying,
as a nest in the house rains fur from the rafters,
a black-eyed mattress slides from its frame,
and what remains
of a window creaks its dirge on a bent nail.
When she curses all sun and rain,
when she blackens their praises in arsons
of young leaves,
when the rivers hoard her hair
tracing the leap and letter of her body,
we will hold her,
we the pierced eye
of every storm and every sin
and every lantern hung inside
her most bitter dream,
we of the lost Ones,
holding her now, as she cries don’t you see, Father
and another fox cuts the thicket with a sparrow in its jaws.