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

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.

​

-Jan Avellana Hongo

heaven

is filled with 

laughter dripping

down

from

the eaves.

it will greet me

with

wide margins,

and

endless fields

of tall grasses

swaying 

on a feather’s breath,

and swaths

of quiet hush

and there are

a thousand

secret places

to be

and alone

but never

lonely.

and all

the words

i have

ever needed

will be there

in heaven

where

the eaves

drip

with laughter.

 

-Jan Avellana Hongo 

when summer comes,

the water

—-velvety and thick—-

will be there

to greet you,

lapping at your toes,

licking you with

the soft caress

of a puppy’s tongue

and

the days will

spread out—-

long and wide,

a buffet of hours,

dripping, spilling over

and there will be

so many yesses

to say,

and

memories to make

and

big gulps

of joy

to swallow,

seed, pulp

and rind,

when summer comes.

​

-Jan Avellana Hongo

today i brushed a girl’s

headful of knotted hair

her pigtails were askew

did daddy do your hair this morning or did you i asked

(because mom is no more)

i did it she said

come here i said

bring your brush

and she did

and i brushed her hair and talked with her

in the middle of class

during the morning chaos

and other little girls looked at us and wanted me to brush them out too

but you have mommies i wanted to tell them

i’m not brushing hair i wanted to say

or making perfect pigtails

i am trying trying to mother her

to say i’m so sorry sorry sorry your momma is gone forever

brush brush brush

here is a bandaid for your gushing wound

but here are hair elastics instead of a tourniquet

i tied looped them over and over and over again just so

and i stroked her head and hugged her

and i don’t know if she felt anything or if i’m making a difference

(am i)

but what else do you do when you see a headful of matted hair

and two ponytails askew 

​

​-Jan Avellana Hongo

Fireflies flicker,

Children flying through sleepy fields

Crossing

the light,

The light,

The light,

Of an emperor moon.

​

-Jan Avellana Hongo

a

slender

figure

in

the

sliver 

of

light

waving

goodbyedontleavemeherepleasedontgo

an

old

man

with

crooked,

leathery

fingers

pressed

up

to

the

glass

as

we

circle,

waving

goodbye

​

-Jan Avellana Hongo

a quiet lunch on the port

the bubbly pink sodapop fizzed

oh, please don’t end, i thought

giddy as a child

i enjoyed my friends for an hour

​

​-Jan Avellana Hongo

let

it

run

through

me

i

said

it

wanted

to

go

around

but

no

i

said

come

through

me

all

the

way

through,

changing

my

landscape,

like

a thread,

a son,

a river,

a song.

​

​-Jan Avellana Hongo

this is the place where yeses

come to dance,

naked, unashamed,

and there is not a not-yes

anywhere.

 

yes to the glow of the midnight moon

if this is what you want—

tuck into your pockets

a thousand sprigs of budding sunlight

and at your hem,

stitch the golden threads 

of childhood hours,

each glorious minute

that ticks by—

always forwards,

never back.

 

yes to the heavens,

that infinite blue sea,

the folding of

dusk to dawn

and

yes to

soaking in streams

of northern lights—

but only if it fills you

with incandescent joy,

then yes.

 

most of all

yes to you,

to the bone and marrow

and the dry deeps

in you,

heaving to be quenched,

yes to this most of all—

and to you.

​

-Jan Avellana Hongo

this is the place where yeses

come to dance,

naked, unashamed,

and there is not a not-yes

anywhere.

 

yes to the glow of the midnight moon

if this is what you want—

tuck into your pockets

a thousand sprigs of budding sunlight

and at your hem,

stitch the golden threads 

of childhood hours,

each glorious minute

that ticks by—

always forwards,

never back.

 

yes to the heavens,

that infinite blue sea,

the folding of

dusk to dawn

and

yes to

soaking in streams

of northern lights—

but only if it fills you

with incandescent joy,

then yes.

 

most of all

yes to you,

to the bone and marrow

and the dry deeps

in you,

heaving to be quenched,

yes to this most of all—

and to you.

​

-Jan Avellana Hongo

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 Hongo

today

loneliness

is

gobbling 

me 

up

whole.

wolfing 

me 

down,

gulp

by

gulp,

not

even

bothering

to

chew.

just 

slowly 

letting

me

digest,

—bone,

         sinew, 

              marrow—

in

lonely

juices,

waiting

patiently

for

me

to

dissolve

​

​-Jan Avellana Hongo

Be Practical and her sister Be Realistic

welcome the

dousing of rain

because

it waters

the plants,

feeds the rivers 

and

the birds need it

so.

 

but i,

i

welcome 

the rain

because it is

the rain.

 

she with

her 

pitter-pattering lullabye,

sung

drop by drop

on the tin roofed houses,

and the ground,

sloshed in drunkenness—

 

there my old dreams

and wishes

are alive,

flourishing,

frolicking naked,

in

the ground soaked through

​

​-Jan Avellana Hongo

when summer comes,

the water

—-velvety and thick—-

will be there

to greet you,

lapping at your toes,

licking you with

the soft caress

of a puppy’s tongue

and

the days will

spread out—-

long and wide,

a buffet of hours,

dripping, spilling over

and there will be

so many yesses

to say,

and

memories to make

and

big gulps

of joy

to swallow,

seed, pulp

and rind,

when summer comes.

​

-Jan Avellana Hongo

the answers

you seek

are waiting

for you

in the poems

you are

too afraid

to write.

​

​-Jan Avellana Hongo

grief 

saunters

in

like a

rude house guest

who forgets her

key at 2 am,

tracking in mud,

leaving

her sandals

strewn

about,

letting

the screen door

slam 

behind

her.

​

​-Jan Avellana Hongo

yesterday,

i opened up a

drawer—

i reached in

and undid

the small 

muslin

wrapping,

touching each

tender scrap,

edges kissed with

carbon

and ash,

miscarriages

of nascent wishes.

remember how

i tried to fan

that bit of bark?

or those branches of

elm and birch,

now sooty—

i once failed to accelerate them

with innocence,

turning myself inside out,

willing them to burn,

enveloping my moist

breath between cupped hands,

the embers smoldered

but did not alight,

too wet and green then to flame,

do you remember?

i’ve saved just one more

audacious thought

in my box of hope—

should i light it now?

withered and brown

and past all chance,

i lean into the wild perhaps

that

these kindling of

dreams,

devoid of life

are ready

now

to light

ablaze,

too late for me?

but not,

maybe,

for you.

​

​-Jan Avellana Hongo

sorrow

visited today,

with a newspaper

in her hand.

she stayed

a while

and muddied

up the new

white rug

in the hallway

sashaying

back and forth,

back and forth,

swinging from

the chandeliers.

​

-Jan Avellana Hongo

let

it

run

through

me

i

said

it

wanted

to

go

around

but

no

i

said

come

through

me

all

the

way

through,

changing

my

landscape,

like

a thread,

a son,

a river,

a song.
 

-Jan Avellana Hongo

this is the place where yeses

come to dance,

naked, unashamed,

and there is not a not-yes

anywhere.

 

yes to the glow of the midnight moon

if this is what you want—

tuck into your pockets

a thousand sprigs of budding sunlight

and at your hem,

stitch the golden threads 

of childhood hours,

each glorious minute

that ticks by—

always forwards,

never back.

 

yes to the heavens,

that infinite blue sea,

the folding of

dusk to dawn

and

yes to

soaking in streams

of northern lights—

but only if it fills you

with incandescent joy,

then yes.

 

most of all

yes to you,

to the bone and marrow

and the dry deeps

in you,

heaving to be quenched,

yes to this most of all—

and to you.

​

-Jan Avellana Hongo

treading water

 

for all my life

i’ve been trying not to drown—

wave and crest have risen and fell

over, and over, and over, again,

a steady hum of tides

but now,

i lay me down in peace, for once—

to let the endless flow of salty tears

fill to full, my burning lungs,

this roarless beast is finally spent.

all the years stroking the water’s surface,

begging to be spared,

but pau.

forgive me, or don’t—

i cease,

and calm my racing heart

i’ve treaded water for 18,250 days,

resisted its threats to swallow me,

but no more—

now i let myself down to sink.

breathing in the waters as i once did, inside my mother’s womb.

in one great heave i give the ocean the deadness of my body.

against it’s own mass,

i rise, lifted, 

and instead of a grave i find a cradle.

has it always been this way?

i came to drown, but instead i float—

what else in this world

have i feared and fought,

yearned only to mother me?

​

​-Jan Avellana Hongo

​