Three Poems After Labor Day
Reflections on Labor and Life
Peace
A man finally finds peace
fifty feet from the shore.
This is the first time
He’s felt this type of freedom
The sun’s rays
The ocean’s waves
The absence of his haunting
shiny leather briefcase
Back to the sea,
and his chest to the sky
The kind water loosens
his black necktie.
His arms lay spread
like a hug to the heavens.
Sharks swim past, sniffing
blood that stands still.
A man finds peace
fifty feet from the shore.
This is the first time
He’s felt this type of freedom.
All You Have
Maybe it’s when you’ve held your first hand
that wasn’t just mum’s or dad’s
Maybe it’s when the chair lifts from under you
during your bar mitzvah
Maybe it’s when the details
of your first kiss start to fade.
Maybe it’s when you’re now the older brother
and then the eldest.
Maybe it’s when your papá exchanges your flats for heels before taking you on
your first waltz as a woman
Maybe it’s when you can sleep with the lights off
on top of another person
Maybe it’s when you can see a bloody movie
without the supervision of a parent or guardian.
Maybe it’s when 18 of your favorite roses blush a brighter red
as they dance before you during your debut
Maybe it’s when you can sing along to SZA or Taylor
and really mean the words without lying to your teeth
Maybe it’s when a trip to Bevmo
is for yourself and not your father
Maybe it’s when you can rent a car.
Or at least have good reason to.
Maybe when you find a job that lasts you;
something much better than your current minimum wage
Maybe it’s when your eyerolls groan
as you give the command
Act your age.
Maybe it’s the stillness that follows.
Maybe it’s when you wake with a headache
that blooms from the back of your skull
and kisses
the new wrinkles on your forehead.
Maybe it’s when you’ve given up
on maybes,
resolving on the now.
Because this day and age,
Maybe that’s all you have.
Why I Stopped Writing
I thought writing things down would make me live longer.
If I put pen to paper, maybe I could last
beyond my time that’s been gifted from God.
Here lies Jalen Giovanni Jones / 2000 - 2074
John 3:16
I think God is cruel for giving me anything
knowing eventually he’d take it all back.
There’s fresh dewdrops on the grass that compliment my future
grave. Fallen from the eyes of those who
inevitably won’t remember me.
There is no permanence
in this form that breaks
the soul
into crushed soft rubies
the powder, meant to be set ablaze.
A circle of fire surrounds me,
and shortly burns every page. Rip
out the spine,
call it a memory.
defined by its ability
to eventually be forgotten.
dried blood stains my back’s bones read
But no collection of words
could bring me back from the dead.