She is the one unafraid
to stitch together snakes,
doctoring the ailing misunderstood
between the peaks of old Appalachian rock.
The Clara Barton of wounded metaphors,
watch her sew their eyelids shut,
not hindering sight
but shutting the lenses against a rerun past,
giving the whipping boy another future to hold.
In the dragonfly mating season
Jones Valley filled up with the wings
of scattered creatures
flitting through September.
Revolution began in a stomach
in fits of eloquent elbows and knees
yet outfitted with stoves of fat
and silent cries were felt in waves
too small and engulfed in fluid to hear.
To know their frenetic dance too well
is the plight of the thirty-something lady,
hearing it echoed in bones
urging her to move on
in that resplendent search to create
a copy of love,
then to fly about until too big to soar,
waiting on the nymph to appear.
- Rachel P. Joiner