Two Poems by Jeneva Stone

Entropy

Cats hiss like water spilled on a hot stove. An evaporation of
aggression.

Distracted by my own thoughts, I once heard “poof” and
turned to see the wok flaming, yellow blades igniting then
joining forces in cacophony.

Sometimes energy exerts itself with an inescapable boom—
other times it releases softly. A physicist might intervene and
say something about quantity and molecular structure and
other factors I can’t account for.

There’s an equation for everything. This I know.

But does it matter how your world destabilizes? A stack of
crockery, piled inexpertly, teeters.

You’ve heard that sound—sharpness of the initial strike, softer
cadence following, a dull splitting open, a fear of being caught
in that deluge of rapid-fire noise without shelter or a way
home.

*

Empty Nest

Somewhere there’s a sun that doesn’t sink beneath an
inevitable horizon. Star fire.

I like the way some loves burn yellow-white, small
arms curling and dancing. That band of the color
spectrum blazes steadily. That is, it lasts.

The hottest flames are violet, one letter short of
destruction.

Before 1700, English didn’t differentiate between
“son” and “sun.” Or “sonne” or “sunne.” So many
letters have fallen away, no longer needed.

In the nineteenth century, yellow roses, nested gold
petals, each layer cupping close the next, meant
friendship. Or joy.

One day our sun will grow large, expanding beyond
the invisible limits of those that orbit him. We won’t
burn. We’ll merely cede our place.

*

Jeneva Stone (she/her) is a poet, essayist and advocate. She’s the author of Monster (Phoenicia Publishing, 2016), a mixed-genre meditation on caregiving. Her work has appeared in NER, APR, Waxwing, Scoundrel Time, Cutbank, Posit, and many others. She is the recipient of fellowships from MacDowell, Millay Arts, and VCCA, and has been nominated multiple times for a Pushcart Prize. Her opinion writing has been featured in The Washington Post and CNN Digital. She holds an MFA from the Warren Wilson Program.

Jeneva volunteers for multiple health care and disability groups, coalitions, and boards/taskforces at local, state and federal levels. Her leadership roles include: Blog Manager for Little Lobbyists, a family-led organization advocating for health care of children with complex medical needs and disabilities; Maryland Community Ambassador for the Rare Action Network, and governor’s appointee to Maryland’s Rare Disease Advisory Council.

Empty Nest by Louisa Muniz

Empty Nest

All summer long the mourning dove sits
in a shaded crook of the hickory tree.

She nests in a hard-to-spot space
and waits for her forthcoming squabs.

Stock-still, she sits, morning, noon & night.

Our eyes lock as I water the hanging begonia
on the tree’s branch.

The wind slows, then stirs to shape
& shift the air around us.

All summer long I waited for things to fall in place.
Before the surgery, the doctor asked,

would you like a picture of the kidney
you’ll be donating to your husband?

Days later, at home, I prop the picture
on my desk next to the window.

Beyond the window, sunlight leaks
like lemonade into the empty nest.

The song of the mourning dove can be heard.
The shadow of the mourning dove cannot be seen.

Some things resound long enough to be missed.

*

Louisa Muniz lives in Sayreville, N.J. She holds a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction from Kean University. Her work has appeared in Tinderbox Journal, Palette Poetry, SWWIM, Poetry Quarterly, PANK Magazine, Jabberwock Review and elsewhere. She won the Sheila-Na-Gig 2019 Spring Contest for her poem Stone Turned Sand. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize. Her debut chapbook, After Heavy Rains by Finishing Line Press was released in December, 2020.