I have
a jelly jar
of memories,
with a metal lid.
I poked holes in it
so the memories can breathe,
but not get out.
It would make a good
wildflower vase—
I could stick the tender stems
into the holes
so they sway just so.
But I won’t.
It is only
for keeping
memories.
-J. Avellana, 2019
I
am
a
weed
woody,
gangly,
no
lipstick,
no
shine.
But
I
know
how
to
grow
through
cement.
I
know
how
to
take
a
sliver
of
filtered
sunlight
and
a
teaspoon
of
dirt
and
make
a
life.
I
can’t
go
deep
so
I
go
wide,
fingers
crawling
under
city
streets,
down
past
Front
Street—
and
around
the
corner,
to
the
end
of
the
block
and
back
again.
-Jan Avellana, 2019
ebony birds threading the fading horizon
a hem to heaven
weaving a passage for the wanderer, the saint, the sinner
i find my way home.
-Jan Avellana Hongo