May Day
By Jamie Jones

The flowers boom in Spring, sprung stories, explosions of mornings in all glory. A newborn—only feet first—petals take off running to the metal fence to meddle with what used to be a dreary Sunday morning. Someday, mourning won't be associated with flowers. That purple and mauve against black gauze makes blood rush to head from the foot: from stem to roots. The route of the soot is wormy. Eye-less and threaded, these segmented needles, earthy, eat shit and shit gold. Instead of bouquets, dump worms on coffins, to soften the terms of death. Pave the road to depths in gold. Roses aren't redder than your lipstick that day; poor Violet, blue, sat in the back pew, lips stuck in a frown. I planted the bright orange flag in my backyard. It turned brown, and nothing grew.

 

 

 

Jamie Jones was born and raised in Westland, Michigan. She got her B.S. from Eastern Michigan University in 2006 and will be finishing up her MA in Creative Writing from there as well in December 2008. She is actively involved in the many publications on and around EMU's campus including Cellar Roots, Real Beginnings, and Dogzplot literary journal. After receiving her MA, she will go on to obtain an MFA in Creative Writing, somewhere, somehow.

 

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