In a Stone Room


In a stone room, cold and tomb-like

I’d listen to the gabble of sandpaper tongues.



I’d part the thighs of marbled strangers


and climb enormous hips of cement

with nursery school fingers.


A pervasive world of sculpture

owned my home.


The walls, decked with canvas

wept oil.


The gunmetal stare

of a mother stone and a father stone


beckoned upon hours.

I’d curl into the crook of a glistening elbow.


When I died, they extracted my heart.

It was blue.


My soul took the shape of a hurricane.

After a century passed


white stones lining the path

to the mausoleum darkened like black pearls.


Today no light falls

and nothing has changed


in a stone room.

The gelid world where stones remain.


Jennifer Juneau’s work has appeared in many journals including American Poetry Journal, Cincinnati Review, Passages North, Seattle Review, Verse Daily and so forth. Her collection, More Than Moon, was a finalist in the National Poetry Series. She lives and writes in Switzerland.