Wednesday, June 30, 2021

Nia by Patricia Spears Jones


It sounds better in Spanish, precario
Prettier. As if it isn’t what it is and there’s that o
My how will the rent get paid? The deadline
Met and who ghosted me first—valley lover
Or that other one.
Delicacy of skin. Quick steps, quick stops
And the direction is what?
There’s no where there and the last shift
Is the one where tongues load a stack of sighs
Bridge tall and mythic.
This day and the next—volcanic shards
Roll toward the door, even if mountains
Are in the far distance—thousands of miles.
How the heart steadily beats as the sirens
Careen and angry men launch their best lives
Ever by taking so many others. It is a miracle
This heart steadily beating even as the next question
Threatens a late spring storm, ground broken
By lightning—the raindrops rhythmic patter
Honors percussionists—those that beat beat beat
Their instrument with a purpose—Nia.
Knowing how one off-beat collapses the genesis
Augurs harsher storms—
Where the purpose becomes precarious.
Where death enters white armed, white throated,
Where the body drops like lightning on rain-moist ground.

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