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'
Tracking
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
Gold
This is Friday high up
Chains
Mouth Song
Palm and rope
Interview