Monthly Archives: April 2015

Ossuaries (poem)

i.

My love,
I want to braid your bones like rivers,
I want to weave them close
like the branches of a sapling
that is glutted with the green blood
of spring.

ii.

My love,
give me your bones.

This is the body that your mother unearthed
with her sweet, brown hands.
This is the flesh that your father pulled up
like a stubborn root.

It will return someday, this body,
to the ground and to the grasses;
it will burrow into the rich earth
and your bones will seem a fitting gift
to one who knew the story of the hands of your father,
of your mother’s knuckles like knots
in hard wood.

iii.

My love,
I love your bones with the certainty of winter
which makes stories and birdsong visible,
hanging suspended as fog in the cold air.

I love your bones, your definite bones,
with the same implacable love reserved for the invisible made definite:
stories, and birdsong.

iv.

My love,
your sweetness lies between the flesh and the bone;
your sweetness is written in the marrow.

v.

My love,
let me gather up your crooked bones
a build a story-shelter,
a house of sweetness;
let me gather up your crooked bones
and build the story of your sweetness
from the sudden tangible language
of winter birdsong.

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