The Journal of Provincial Thought
jptArchive Iss 15
lil diamond 1MJones15luminancelil diamond 2MJones15 Pigasus Iss 15 c2007 W Schafer-MJones15
The intriguing poetry of
Marion Jones

Boots
Skeleton in the closet 
Ruth kept leather gear for body
parts in her closet she closed, 
except when undressing for bed,
when dressing each morning. Door
ajar, on a high shelf, light fell on
brown boots standing side by side.
Her boots hurt my feet, she said.
Their laces, crossings, fine leather
boots, for walking mountain tops,
stood aloof. Waste not, want not...
Shaped by the other woman's
foot bones, those boots would cross
over into the pawn dealer's shop.
_____________________________
Visit Back
The vow: Never return.
But roots draw her back to the iron
gates, to a Carob tree, to black pods,
St John's Bread, sweet food for the dead.
A red ant family walk over a plaque,
engraved with the name of mother,
of daughter. She lies on the grass
over the body, its shadow under
the earth. Below, above, the pelvic
circle carries the moon in their bones.
Grandparents, auntie, father throw
flowers, as they had thrown clay.
Born beneath the sign of Aries,
when winter merges with spring,
they say, you are the crocus,
springing up to die back.
The kindly sexton digs one
bone to sear with flame, brittle,
dazzling, resounding. A holy relic
she places in a box on the mantle
beside the Madonna at home.
_____________________________
Short Talk On Balance
Prose poem
The cord-pivot scale originated in ancient Egypt 5,000 BC.
A vertical support secured the centre of a horizontal beam.
At one end, a pan held an object to weigh; at the other,
a second pan held known weights to bring the ends in
balance.
On Wednesday afternoons, the vegetable man stopped at
Grandmother's back steps. In the breeze, sun flickered
through a canopy of eucalyptus leaves shining on her,
as she stood beside the truck bed to choose from rows
of bins: apples, bananas, oranges, lemons, cabbages,
carrots, onions, potatoes. At each end of the bar, a tray
gleamed silver; in one, small rounds of iron, weighing
ounces or pounds, balanced fruit or vegetables in the other.
When the bar tipped level, a clock hand pointed to weight,
not time; then pencil and paper figured the cost.
At the supermarket, a blue screen records: name of store,
address, phone number, product name, code, cost per unit,
quantity, cost plus GST, final cost. Behind these words,
these numbers, among the pyramids, Grandmother strides
with ease, as she carries the water jug. She watches,
as I settle the account I justly owe. For those who have not,
even what they have will be taken.
I thought my time had come, she tells me. But I'm at peace,
willing to go. How much I've loved you, my favourite.
Through her eyes, I see she knew beforehand the deficit
in my name, all that would happen, all I must pay.
Inexplicably, her presence price carries over, a credit,
my balance, as I stand in line.
poems copyright 2009 Marion Jones
jptArchive Issue 15
Copyright 2009- WJ Schafer & WC Smith - All Rights Reserved