J.M. Jordan is a nearly-unpublished writer who just began writing again after a twenty-year hiatus. He is a Georgia native, a Virginia resident, and a homicide detective by profession. He enjoys bourbon, Byzantine history, long walks on Civil War battlefields and (occasionally) sleep.
Shallow there in the shadows, shaded by the laurels, as morning comes on clear and cold as old ice puddles, there where the ragged woodline makes a hedge against the day, a brim, a bound of darkness at the border of the field, he sits in fertile stillness. The slats of the old blind are…
I was born in a shadow country Of roofless temples smudged with smoke, Where even the roadside shrines Sat jilted, their chintzy dioramas Strung with strands of christmas lights That lit the paths of small tin soldiers Shouldering their guns into darkness To hollow drums and distant music. O sing, cicada, sing… I grew up…
