Korbin Jones graduated from Northwest Missouri State University with degrees in writing/publishing and in Spanish, and is currently pursuing his MFA in Poetry at the University of Kansas. He has had poems, short stories, and personal essays appear in various literary magazines across the nation. His translation of Pablo Luque Pinilla’s poetry collection ‘SFO’ is forthcoming from Tolsun Books (April 2019). He works as editor-in-chief and head designer for Fearsome Critters: A Millennial Arts Journal.
Heeled in This Dirt
for Barb, from Byron
Sister, I leave you not in empty hands, as we all hold you now
together. Mother oak of an orchard all your own, of a line
you passed so much of us through, with stubbornness
and quiet pride. The dirt of this place will never leave our feet,
nor the heels of our children, nor our children’s children,
on down the line until they call to us like the legends we did,
from this land our family has bled into, has risen out of
like sleeping cicadas that hum our same old song
throughout these generations. You will not sing alone, sister,
youngest of our blood. My wife, my children and theirs,
those who carry me in your hearts and veins and heels—
this dirt will always welcome you, will always be my gift to you.
It was nothing much until our ancestors planted seed,
cleaned out the earth, built rows and home and memories
upon their labored backs and capable hands, these hands
which you now hold and carry your own in. Despite the miles
and the borders that have wedged themselves between us,
we all come back to these, our roots, to the dirt that farrowed us
to being, where we’ll all return in some manner
to give thanks for the years we toiled and loved and ventured
through this life, and so must I return myself to this land.
Breath to breeze. Soul to soil. Life to loving. Ash to ash.
I’ll greet you when your time has come for finally coming home.
Night Brings Out the Voyeurs
We tuck forgiveness beneath our arms
with the bedsheets and pillows, coming back for
the little women in their glass boxes later.
it’s a humbling process—cleaning out my neighbor’s house
after years of constant absence. Not death,
just with family a few states away, too old to come back.
She left the washroom light on, left after
her grandson drowned alone. We pass the velvet works
and the beaded hangings, collecting things
we can crash onto later, exhausted from the labor—
physical, emotional. There’s always
something left to say, to be said when closure
has been found and coddled, tucked away in a drawer
for the next fight, the next falling out. I sneeze
from the stucco and the dust and she compliments
my nose ring, a recent addition. Hers
is a rebel tattoo that curves with her hand when
she cups the first tiny woman we free from a box.
We lean in close. Marvel. Wonder how she ever
fit in there. Wonder where she was bought.
We set her gently down on the makeshift bed
in the driveway. Another neighbor passes by, waves
at her, ignores me like the fixtures we silently agree
are too cumbersome to move, much more trouble than
they’re worth. Panting, we join the tiny women outside,
surrounded by lampshades and plates, VHS tapes
and moccasins, and we leave the washroom light on,
just in case someone walking by grows curious, looks in,
thinks what we’ve left behind to be worth the trouble,
to be something worthy of a vision or a memory.