Voices
The men who taught me
hope were barely any
more than a couple of kids
with organ shoes thumping
together in bags slung over
their shoulders, always.
They smiled clumsily and
didn’t always meet my
eyes when we spoke,
all of them at times
only whispers in a crowd,
straining to be heard,
yet at a moment’s notice
shoved the clutter off a
bench in a storage room
and dusted off the keys
so they could sit and
speak for God.
Glow
I sing the corners of your smile,
your eyes brimming with light,
the full throat of your fattest laugh,
and skin so smooth I fear (yet hope)
mine leaves indentations in its wake;
but most of all your spirit’s glow that sparks
songs in my soul where it never dreamt to hear.
AMY LAUREN JONES is a graduate student in Mississippi. Among other publications, her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Wherewithal Lit, Lavender Review, and Sinister Wisdom.