see me, Black as I am and call me beautiful
2 poems by I.S. Jones.
Small bottles of Suntory snuck into his daily allowance of tea / who was I to rat him out when he grinned with silver crowns showing?
not just the sting of the whip, the nothingcoloredblue of the ocean / or the spaces so dark and putrid and red black brown fleshsmelling
a boy’s head inscribed on a coin flipped
Rust smells sharp, as does crumbling foliage/and stinging taste of childhood on my tongue.
I have almost grown too fond of/windsong, the slow crescendo of a/sister’s death on the/xylophone, hypnosis.
i am dizzy and lightheaded still half in a dream
I know to consider/the potential for prophecy when giving a name.
have you ever seen a child embrace death/so rapidly it would put whole armies to shame?