JORDAN ALMOND - POEMS

Jordan Almond writes amidst the joy and chaos of life as a stay home mom. She loves to travel and share the world with her husband and two sons. Together they enjoy the outdoors, epicurean adventures, and a love for growing things. Jordan and her family currently reside in Texas with their three rescue dogs. 

​Shadow Found

It was dark then,
The oaken giant heaving in the wind.
The window broke, 
Water like waves
Breaking in.
The waves of sound
Long forgotten in eerie tunnels.
They say water can
Remember. 
Can it ever forget?
Our world told
And told by currents 
In the bedrock. 
They say she was a legend.
Then again, legendary 
Only in darkness. 
Never come into the light,
The shroud is safer.
Eyes cast at my shadow,
But what do they see?
They thinks it’s me
Across the room.
They think it’s me, 
It is a lost shadow
In a place where
Boys don’t cry. 
Street lamp glow 
And boots in the dark.
All is in shadow, 
But nothing is lost.
Until it is gone and 
The stage is set. 
“The show must go on”
You can see it in their eyes
They can’t help you 
Find your shadow,
They only know a you
Painted with sunlight 
Dapples and smiling eyes.
This you, is new.
This shadow lingers yet
Evades.
No one will help you
Until you are crying
On the floor with a 
Bar of soap.

​

​The Lady in the Garden

Long strands that wish they could be gray and free, unshackled by you
And your newest ineffable discovery of how to prevent yourself from metamorphosis.
I had to tell you about the baby over the phone So that we could still come over. 
The summer garden, caressing me with wild tendrils reaching toward the 
Path, blossoming though Fall was poised to consume the bloom. 

I remember helping you after they plowed, the smell of wet earth 
Exposed. The dirt by the fence. Your cutoff jeans. The tanned 
Muscles in those arms working the earth. “I could smell you.” 
They said. The boys that wanted to help you work. 
The death of the hen Penelope, a dumpster grave.   

You love the butterflies. Anticipate their annual presence. 
You name the birds, wait for the seasonal ebb and flow of visitors. 
Your garden, densely thicketed, boasts promises of food and shelter. 
So many plants. And my how you can make them grow, your magic stick opening 
The terra womb. I can smell you now, in the garden. You smell the same.

My mother, my motherhood is punctuated by flowers, okra, 
Cucumbers. Punctuated by you, the sound of your voice and 
That smell. I sing the same songs you once sung, and think of us. 
I wonder why someone would want to die, the stench of vomit
On blood stained concrete, sixteen eyes that will never forget.

Remembering is easy, especially those things we try to forget.
Olfactory shackles won’t let go, no matter how much earth stretches between.
Your tanned legs, running. That smell of your hair as you kissed me
In the morning. He said you look like a deer and she hated you for it. 
How you needed to be free from those weighted chains, free to run. 

I smell you now, even here, even when geography is stretching out
Between us. The waterlogged earth is unfamiliar but I think of you,
And smell that smell. Your musky motherly scent keeps me from forgetting
You amongst petals and beating wings. I see you there, those wiry arms
Stretching, reaching, tucking a gray hair back behind your ear as you prune




Amidst the butterflies, the smells mingle. There are memories fluttering round
As tears fall, watering each petal with a soulful drip. Wings beat soundlessly in 
Mild consolation. That smell again. You are there, here. Your wings beating
Soundlessly. You will never stop, and I can offer only momentary solace
A singular embrace, endless love to the Lady in the Garden.

​