{"id":2768,"date":"2016-04-11T15:57:01","date_gmt":"2016-04-11T15:57:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=2768"},"modified":"2016-04-13T02:43:58","modified_gmt":"2016-04-13T02:43:58","slug":"clara-b-jones","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/clara-b-jones\/","title":{"rendered":"Clara B. Jones"},"content":{"rendered":"

\/three girls passed Ranger School last year\/<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

for Winnie Wardlaw<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My parents were post-racial so we were Unitarian <\/span><\/p>\n

and never ate fried chicken, only Duck \u00e0 L’orange. <\/span><\/p>\n

If our cat’s kittens weren’t perfect, mother fed them <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to our pet python who preferred hamsters with less <\/span><\/p>\n

hair. Hamsters are capable of love but not if they’re <\/span><\/p>\n

forced to struggle upside down since all their energy <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

(<\/span>E<\/b>) is lost flailing to find a hard surface. Don’t touch<\/span><\/p>\n

my mother’s Steuben\u00ae vase engraved with Castro’s <\/span><\/p>\n

face, as if she cared. She cared enough to buy me a <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

pair of combat boots from military supply and to serve <\/span><\/p>\n

canned rations whenever a friend slept over, especially, <\/span><\/p>\n

Winnie, whose mother baked macaroons which I hate <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to this day though Mrs. Wardlaw was nice enough, no <\/span><\/p>\n

doubt suspicious that my mother preferred Lumumba <\/span><\/p>\n

to Castro since I went to Vermont for survival training, <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and three girls passed Ranger School last year. I have <\/span><\/p>\n

the satisfaction of knowing that Winnie never goes <\/span><\/p>\n

winter camping or shoots a deer between his eyes or <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

wears cargo pants to cocktail parties or reads <\/span>The Prison <\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Notebooks<\/span><\/i> to her child or feeds ugly kittens to her <\/span><\/p>\n

pets. <\/span>OK, stop bragging, get back to work.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Clara B. Jones is a retired scientist, currently practicing poetry in Asheville, NC. As a woman of color, Clara writes about the \u201cperformance\u201d of identity and power, and she conducts research on experimental poetry. Her poems, reviews, essays, and interviews have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous venues.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\/three girls passed Ranger School last year\/   for Winnie Wardlaw   My parents were post-racial so we were Unitarian and never ate fried chicken, only Duck \u00e0 L’orange. If our cat’s kittens weren’t perfect, mother fed them   to our pet python who preferred hamsters with less hair. Hamsters are capable of love but […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2768","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nClara B. 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