Maybe mercy is the feather
that gives hope plumage—
How else would men love
in the aftermath of brotherly war?
Such questions call to me like crows—
jagged, gnawing, at 2am.
Saint Frances—
how did you conjure grace
for those that killed
soft creatures with bright eyes?
How did you shelter the dove
nested in your own breast?
The ribcage hardly feels stanza
enough to carry out its job.
What action in domestic affairs?
Unlikely flight? Exocoetidae—
like an ancient fish donning wings
to survive across eons?
Or perhaps an upheld hand—
universal sign for:
Come no closer,
Go in peace.
What in Genocide’s shadow?
Exodus? Sanctions? Arrest?
Not death for death—
at least some courage beyond complicity—
then years grappling
with grief’s heavy stones.
At the bottom of the stream
beneath cloud cover, swirling mud eddies,
and hungry minnows
the water is clear, still.
There, the bones open
and the heart swims out.
—
Jessica Jones is on full-time faculty at Kent State University where she teaches creative writing, Native American literature and place-based composition. She comes from a long line of makers and musicians in Northern Appalachia where trees and animals were among her first teachers. She holds a Masters from the University Montana, and regularly returns to see loved ones and teach/learn on the Flathead and Blackfeet Indian Reservations. Her chapbook, Bitterroot (2018), can be found at Finishing Line Press.
