1957
whether my blood is tainted, stained or blessed
i sew the roots the same. engine grease shadows
the lines of my palms into a map of origins
that lead nowhere when mean winter skies
turn the ground into a shivering foothill.
follow the life line to raven’s nest securely
in the ceremony of tree branches and
the filed end of a shotgun blowing smoke
from its nose. i might be the son of genocide
but i slit the favorite rabbit’s throat the same
as any witch or mother: swift and light,
the hint of a prayer in the sun slanting
through late spring’s boughs. follow
the heart line to the hope of building a love
you can harvest when coyotes circle
on the coldest day, then to a burn in the throat,
that numbs a day’s work into an American Dream.
i don’t know, but i do know these hills and how
the water rests like a lump in the planet’s throat,
washing oil and water into an unbearable sheen.
1873
the sun fell as a winter tide concealed its ghosts,
the moon forgotten in its temporary shadow.
i was taken when the stars unknotted their light,
the hills of my ancestors disappearing behind me.
inside the strangling weave of lessons on whiteness
are whispers of the ceremony of raven.
i hear the light between unremarkable syllables,
and remember love in the moonflowers, but pretend
not to notice—their language is a god faithless
in his own creation. the ground pulls from them
like a receiving blanket. my feet hold the ground
as it crumbles.
1736
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
– Third Witch, Macbeth
chiseled licorice root eases the nerves,
i keep the secret under floorboards
then straighten the cross on the wall
for the watchman carrying the Hammer.
women in these hills are burned to ash
when their palms are found stained
with plants. there’s a history of dirt
on our hands and blood enough
to sew a seed if the rain is right.
plant your crops from west to east
for good luck, it will trick the sunset
into believing that every harvest is
a tiny fire. when the wind shifts north
it brings burnt flesh and stale bread
in wafting circulations of knots
winding across the land to infinity.
Ever Jones (they, them) is the author of TRANSANYTHING, their debut essay collection, publishing in August 2025 with Curbstone Books. They are the author of two poetry collections, nightsong and Wilderness Lessons. Check out a selection of their visual and literary work at everjones.com.
Read more by Ever Jones appearing in Terrain.org: four poems, one poem, and four poems.
