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Mason Jar Museum

by Daniel Edward Moore

In the obvious way time and grace
need us to say certain things
so that if tomorrow comes it
will have a place to stay, so do
our feet, need a creek, in Ohio,
to wash the last days off the end times.

They need rooms waiting for memories
birth and October’s crisp exhale,
waiting in the tender shadow of a moon
to pour its light over centuries of flesh,
tied to me like a horse, like a river,
like innocent creatures in barns that collapsed
in stories of weather and war.

The neighbor’s call our porch
your sunflower cloud and those
are my tears baptizing your hands
to ensure that even the tiniest seed
breaks into bloom and behold.

If poems are a camera flashing between us
like bridges in Madison County,
that’s me half-lit, keeping you warm
in your mason jar museum.


Daniel Edward Moore was born in Selma, Alabama, and lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His work is forthcoming in I-70 Review, Tar River Poetry Journal, Bryant Literary Review, Book of Matches and Triggerfish Critical Review.

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