Poems by Jane Juran

Moravian Star Class

Seventy-two sharp-pointed
stained glass triangles.
One errant tip tore into my left knuckle.
It bled like hell, swelled.

I never went back to class
held onto the pieces for years
until U-haul boxes filled my X-terra.

My diamond ring would never fit back on
over the scar tissue.


The time until you die
grips the top of my hand

grates my fingers against
puckered metal

collects skin and bone

into a soft pile
on the good China.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s