The Eclipse

Each night she stands there,
a quiet, blank window.
Sometimes she sees the stars,
sorting through them
to the Dipper and the Cross,
sometimes she’s watching us
at our yellow curtain.
The hush of her breath
blows over your skin
as we lie afterwards,
our lips still fresh
but limp in rest,
her breath like the hands
that unravelled waves
in her body and hair.
Her breath reminds her
of curtains and the last time -
the moon dark red in eclipse.

Poems from 'Ash is Here, So are Stars'

Embedded Dreams
Are You Worried About Yourself?

Reviews of 'Ash is Here, So are Stars'

A. Frances Johnson in Cordite Poetry Review
Lucy Alexander in Verity La

Other poems by Jill Jones

This is Friday high up
Mouth Song
Palm and rope


A conversation with Jill Jones