Parts Unknown, by Clara B. Jones

I am not a silent poet

for Anthony Bourdain (1956-2018, suicide)

When the highest point of one thing
is the lowest point of another, the
mist ascends from Mount Kenya,
Acacia rises from loam, succulent
from sand, book from morpheme,
syntax from book, symphony from
note, Chèvre from cream, Paris
from Seine, as you entered a forest
of memories from one prescient thought—
that time would change nothing, a few
pounds here and there or a few wrinkles,
markings obvious as hair greying, feelings
changing, no longer young, the Rockies a recent
formation, slowly aging, unlike the Great
Smokies, never expecting time to mold
his body into something else—like leaves
turning yellow or red then falling toward
another year’s renewal to offer pollen and
nests and other life stirred by our tears.


Clara B. Jones practices poetry in Silver Spring, MD (USA). She, also, conducts research on experimental poetry and radical publishing. Clara is author…

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