EVERYTHIING I KNOW UP UNTIL NOW

by Jennifer Jones

I’d build you a home in poetry

if I could find your box on the storage shelves  
in my memory. You are like a fog that roots
itself on top of the grass blades

in the witching hours, blanketing

my face, obscuring all edges. So thick and
opaque it could swaddle the whispers of a mockingbird
forever. Funny the word forever. Just when you

think it the sun breaks through and the mist

was never really there. And I’m left standing
in a well worn bathrobe with Jack on my breath.
I’m there in the wet grass, watching the world

watching me. And I’m stuck.

I’m all tangled up in metaphors.