this joy
becomes
a pearl
nestled between
my ribs
imagine
the blunt edge
of my rib
clamping down
on fingers
intent on thieving
this precious
(my)
from me
the pearl
becomes
a sun
in the arctic
in june
always shining
loose threads
a smattering of things
recent posts
about
Jo McCrory is a writer and artist living in northern California.
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back to the saffron field where i planted the memories
of moments that never were
all the sweet soliloquies under waxing moons
temperate souls orbiting a sun of rusted linens
Can’t really provide any background or context to this, other than I wrote it after a day spent at the hospital with someone. I was decompressing from the day, and liked the saffron field image. What’s a sun of rusted linens? No clue. But I still like it.
loose threads 