Here is a poem by my very good friend, Brian Francis. I will talk about some of the images in the next post
Granddaddy used the mason jars for homemade holy water.
We’ve seen him bring back to life
what was long since buried
and speak truths in tongues–
we still work to decode.
Donovan catches fireflies
in the jars now.
Everyday they scrimmage,
training for when the dark swarms
like fleets of night,
locusts on a desert in bloom
split him clean
down the middle
and smash the mason jar
in his chest.
Sew him back quickly.
I want to stand electric.
We maneuver these days like the sun
came out in blackface.
The audience doesn’t know
if the tears come from the hurt
of the heart collapsing in on itself
or the honest of bottom
The name you scream into the pillow
does not know the body beside you–
We are parallel conversations bent
Bound to our shames even in exaltation. Amen
The jar held seeds
dreamt to be forests,
but we heard how that story ends.
From outside the garden
mommy says you can’t fly in the face of god.
We’re still working out the kinks–
in these wings stitched from phantom kisses,
ill-fitting compasses that stall on themselves
and the spilt innards of mason jars
we found along the way.
Yeah, there are a few cuts,
but under the right light
these wounds blossom
In the meantime
A storm to drown out the sirens’
shrieking fits, mourning
the moments martyred
in the name of clean breaks.