Soon Jones

Soon Jones

Canis Minor

the smell of dried, pressed grass tickles my nose as i march across the twenty acre field to my favorite bale from this season. i’ve carved a step into its center coil with the tip of my boot from a hundred nights of hoisting myself up. buddy, my black border collie mutt who i proudly stole as a pup from owners that thought kicking his tiny furry body was fun, jumps up ahead of me, tongue lolling out in contentment.

under the stars, a thousand frogs exchange gossip, crickets restlessly sing to each other, and birds call out into the night for their own. out here, i can track the rotation of the earth by the constellations emerging from the shadows of the treeline. sometimes a river rock from the universe skips across our atmosphere.

jonesy, the old family golden retriever, runt of her litter, yet never once afraid of the coyotes who test our territory, can’t jump anymore, so when she puts her paw on the side of the haybale, i pick her up and put her in the middle. later, i’ll jump down first, catch her, and let the dogs guide me home.

Soon Jones

You Could Be Pretty

When my breasts betrayed me the first time by arriving before I was ten, my stepmother forced me to wear lacey bras and satin underwear, telling me not to be a whore as she threw me at any boy or grown man who looked, hoping for a shotgun marriage.

So I stopped wearing dresses outside of church and at weddings of people I didn’t know. I stopped wanting to be pretty. I wore thrifted Timberland boots and oversized shirts, carried knives.

I treated makeup like an exotic curiosity and yes, it makes me pretty. Creates someone new

and vulnerable, someone who looks safe. Instead I learned to throw a punch without breaking my wrists. Learned to throw grown men over my hip like fussy children. Developed an early eye for tight groupings, center mass. Learned to hold a rifle as close as a lover to my shoulder, and open my bones to each bullet’s shockwave, to the unrelenting hunger of the world.