Tuesday, 18 July 2017

A poem by Ali Jones

No Sleep

Put on your cherry reds, and walk out into the rain,
it’s always raining here, watering something in.
How long will he stay? Will it be long enough
to see you in raven robes, priesting under a full moon?

Each weekend, he dies a little, each copper sunset,
each time you show him your books,
and his eyes shine like lit lamps, or when you say goodbye
and he presses snap into your hand.

He has polished your boots, hummed the gleam in
just like his father always did. It happens later,
you’ve been playing mix-tapes from India
and kissing for far too long; wait, you implore,

I have so much to say. You grab his darkening hand,
so quiet, until the room dissolves and you are standing
in a wide field, turned through generations, look,
how time rocks you in a slow dance. You are so young;

terrified of being in this body, while he is going
out of his. He doesn’t remember your name,
only sweet earth and mandolin stings, fingers trace
how long it lasts, what it takes, to remember his stories.

Ali Jones is a teacher, and writer, living in Oxford, England. She holds an MA in English, focused on poetry in domestic spaces and has written poetry in a variety of forms for many years. She is a mother of three. Her work has appeared in Fire, Poetry Rivals Spoken Word Anthology, Strange Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Snakeskin Poetry, Atrium, Picaroon Poetry, Mother’s Milk Books, The Lake Magazine, Breastfeeding Matters, Breastfeeding Today and Green Parent magazine. She writes a regular column for Breastfeeding Matters Magazine, and blogs for The Motherload. She was the winner of the Green Parent Writing Prize in 2016, the runner up for the Mother’s Milk prize for prose in 2016, and has also written for The Guardian.

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