Jesse Mavro Diamond is an internationally published poet whose work has graced publications in the United States, Ireland, and Greece. Her evocative verses explore themes of identity, nature, and human connection, resonating with diverse audiences. In her latest publication, “Ode To A Lute,” featured in Aeolian Harp Anthology Series 10, she demonstrates a mastery of lyrical expression and innovative form. Diamond’s creative voice and commitment to her craft have firmly established her as a compelling figure in contemporary poetry, earning critical acclaim both at home and abroad.

Aubade

for Betty

 

She tears her grave weight off the bed.

In the open window, a butterfly rises,

falls. Children’s giggles echo: Regret, regret.

She bears the comfortless cooing of doves

confessing in the church tower. She stares

at her festival of tulips past their prime. 

Her bald head boasts no sheitel, 

her left-hand finger, no ring.

Hers is the ponderous gait of grackles. Yet, once, 

 

The long-haired girl giggling, racing from a grassy bet, tumbling beneath the flirtatious sway of weeping branches, singing alto despite the incessant sopranos of sparrows, 

refusing the vow of brown birds to their nests.

As the bell’s foot strikes the glass hour,

she wishes upon it to return— rising from the bed,

her petals wet, lips swollen from kissing,

Upon her brow a turban—Red!

———————

 

Black Sheep

 

A young one, must have been,

His blind curiosity butting heads

 

With the barbed law of wire:

Prick, stick and hold.

 

All the worse for pulling back

Then forward, then back.

 

The flock unmoved

By its pleading ba-aa-a.

 

The whole mob knows 

They’re bound, one by one

 

For the hood of a barn shadow.

Once, I too was young,

 

butting heads with jagged fences 

of blunt men. So today,

 

I strode to save that lamb.

Tonight I’ll dream of that calloused hand 

 

lifting barbs from the tender

of my own dark neck. 

———————

 

The Black Sheep

 

A young one, must have been,

His blind curiosity butting heads

With the law of barbed wire:

Prick, stick and hold.

 

All the worse for pulling back

Then forward, then back,

 Its pleading ba-a-a heard

By the unmoving mob.

 

The mob follows the law 

of bestial kingdoms:

Headed for the darkness of the barn,

their flocks’ discarded parts, 

wait for birds

 

following the Great Mystery’s

Commandments of Rave. 

Yet, once I was a black sheep,

young, butting heads 

 

with jagged fences of blunt men.

Yesterday, I strode to save

that sheep from its nightfall fate.

Tonight, I will dream 

 

of the calloused hand,

that once lifted the barbs 

from the tender 

of my dark neck. 

———————

 

Black Sheep

 

A young one, must have been:

blind curiosity butting heads

with the law of barbed wire:

 

Prick, stick and hold.

All the worse for pulling back,

then forward, then back,

 

The unmoving mob deaf

to its pleading ba-a-a, knowing

the mysterious commandments  

of man’s brutal rave.   

 

Yet, once I too was young,

butting heads with jagged fences

of blunt men. So today I strode 

 

to free that lamb. Tonight, I will dream 

of the calloused hand that lifted the barbs 

from the raw tender 

of my own dark neck.