Jane Crown is a native Texan who has spent a decade in the city of New Orleans,
where she witnessed the great inundation during hurricane Katrina in 2005. 

She is 39-year-old freelance writer currently residing in San Antonio. 

Jane hosts a blog talk radio show where she interviews poets, novelists, and
magazine editors/publishers. Her intent is to archive as many established American
writers as she can. You may find a complete schedule of future shows and audio
files of completed sessions at: http://www.janecrown.com 

Jane will have a poetry collection out this year dubbed "The Paper Fruit." Some of 
her articles and poetry have appeared in Paranoia Magazine "The War at Home," 
"Tall Tales of Synchronicity" by Hunter Gatheress Press, The Socialist, and the 
Rattlesnake Review to name a few. Aditionally, Jane will be reading at the 
D.A.Levy poetry series this October in Sacramento.

"Cupola of Folds"  

I.

 
It is the fold of
Lint between the pockets
That you stand there toying with
As he stares at your hands
Mesmerized by your red hair
Then you reach beyond seeing
To tip on toes
And kiss him

II.

 

It is the fold of flesh
That dimples
As you hear how badly he
Loved you
And you could not
Care less anymore
Because he only uses charm for
Strangers and sisters you once loved

III.

It is the fold of the pillow
As it creases under you
For a poem to be born
And it is after 3am
You’re trying to flush the images
Out, and maybe God
Has given you this promise
To work, finally

IV.

It is the fold of memory
As you recall that first
Toy you broke on Christmas day
And your mother was crying in the kitchen
That she had lost
A diamond ring down
The sink
It was still morning just yet

V.

It is the fold of the Formica under
Her sharpened nails
As you first learned how
To use your tongue
And you find out that all
Eyes have whitened backs
And eyelashes are not for
Sand at all

VI.

It is the fold of company
That lays drunk on
A Saturday night
After you have heard
The story of how his family
Tore him from childhood
Going back dozens
Of smashed decades

VII.

It is the fold of fascism
as you watch the wall come toppling
down from a grown man's eyes
And you, his son
Who took his placard after his death
To prove he was once worthy
Of defense, love
And warmth for something

VIII.

It is the last fold of light
As he left me and the sun
Melted harmony into agony
That he'll never see
It again as either beautiful
Or plausible that
You could ever have
Attended his wedding or his funeral

IX.

It is the fold of crisp
stamina as lungs whine for
Your father to rescue you
From your sick bed
He cannot, of course
And you've taken to
Holding back again, grappling small
Hands along hospital walls

X.

It is the fold of brutality
As you watch the raft go out
And New Orleans finally leaves you
You’re waving goodbye
As the freeway
Blisters black faces
That  have made an entire
Culture possible; a place to thrive

all copyrights belong to Jane Crown