They tried to conjure the night before.
Inside the house cool, brimming with aromas
of damp stone floors, polished wood, Brasso.
Outside, slanted yew, snaking branches, bright berries.
After lights out, a full moon, phosphorescent skies,
percussion that shook the whole house,
impact, metal on metal, air choreography;
clap, shock, barrage, thunder. Silence.
In the morning, nothing there,
though they searched for precipitate fuselage;
crippled fenders; the plateau of a carcass;
any kind of augury; a simple sign, or token.
Downstairs together, wearing sleep and twisted sheets,
clasped palms raining, blood knocking a quickstep,
Eveready flashlights fumbled from dark caverns,
door chinked open. Two shadows, shocked awake;
wondering. Maybe the dead don’t really depart.
Things repeat, play out. Carry on as big as life.
Soon they moved on, sold up with well-reasoned alibis,
the successors’ innocence, a probable blessing.
Ali Jones is a teacher, music lover, and mother of three. Her work has appeared in Proletarian Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Snakeskin Poetry, Atrium, Mother’s Milk Books, Breastfeeding Matters, Green Parent magazine and The Guardian. Her pamphlets Heartwood and Omega are forthcoming with Indigo Dreams Press in 2018.