Danielle Jones

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When he eased me into the riverI was supposed to feel God coming clean in mebut all I could see was the black kitten, scrawnywhen its mama went off and left it, fliesin its eyes, and daddy saying the best thing to dowas put it out of its misery, so I named itMercy, while he held it under water—his handa stone, so big I couldn’t see its struggle, but could feel it, same way I always feel the wounded or afraid—soon as I walk in a room, we’re family—flight of swallows, storm of fish, bubbles rising from their mouths, a stream in the water, the kitten’s last breath, and mine, as he pulls me up—his hand, a hookbetween my shoulder blades, and he calls meby my baptized name, but the drowning in my blood has already named me something else.—from Rattle #84, Summer 2024

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Danielle Jones: “When I found the book—its corner torn, its red cover creased—my sister was gone. I held the poetry anthology because she was no longer there to hold me, tell stories, or sing me to sleep. I gobbled up the words left behind (not much else for a child to eat in that house of grief). I dined on Dickinson, Cummings, Dunn, Sexton and Orr, Frost, Clifton, Rich, Keats. Their poems filled the bowl inside me.”

Related* “Prayer for an Inmate of RVJDC” by Danielle Spratley * “The Book Pitch” by Joan Murray * “Joe Arridy” by Joseph Fasano