The men who taught me

hope were barely any

more than a couple of kids


with organ shoes thumping

together in bags slung over

their shoulders, always.


They smiled clumsily and

didn’t always meet my

eyes when we spoke,


all of them at times

only whispers in a crowd,

straining to be heard,


yet at a moment’s notice

shoved the clutter off a

bench in a storage room


and dusted off the keys

so they could sit and

speak for God.



I sing the corners of your smile,

your eyes brimming with light,

the full throat of your fattest laugh,

and skin so smooth I fear (yet hope)

mine leaves indentations in its wake;

but most of all your spirit’s glow that sparks

songs in my soul where it never dreamt to hear.



AMY LAUREN JONES is a graduate student in Mississippi. Among other publications, her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Wherewithal Lit, Lavender Review, and Sinister Wisdom.