Constants by Patricia Wallace Jones


It’s pleasing to fill crystal with callas again,
to recall how little they ask to grace ditches,
forgotten plots, a mother’s grave twice a year.

Some pay money for what locals call weeds.
Me, I see women so simply exposed
they can be drawn with one perfect line.

by Patricia Wallace Jones

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Editor’s Note: The last two lines of this delicate poem carry the entire thing. That is all.