pull from the light three times daily
take in water all at once, then nothing all at once
despise the hands of children
upon the lids of the dead, weigh heavy
recant wild fields, perpetuate meadows
cover smaller things
present yourself, a plague in someone’s shoe
stay so precisely still that all become an elsewhere
know only the territory of your non-space
the fields will destroy you, and the waters; let them
around the necks of others, dance
allow yourself the small gap against all
do not envy the other colors
you are among: the house, the wall, the grave
you are alone: the sign, the mark, the token
before you were, you were something else
the lungs of the dusk beneath earth
name you bear inside that silence
Photo by loufi 
JACQUELINE WINTER THOMAS has poems appearing in The Journal, Redivider, TAB, DIAGRAM, and the North American Review among others. She is a contributing editor at Eratio and teaches classes in poetry and form. She is interested in the convergence of poetics and philosophy and has an MFA in poetry from the University of North Carolina, Wilmington.
Latest posts by Jacqueline Winter Thomas (see all)
- To Understand the Stone - May 17, 2018
- The Slowed-Down Season: A Review of Winter by Patricia Fargnoli - February 23, 2014
