Wednesday, December 29, 2010

How to Feel Your Own Bones


 How to Feel Your Own Bones

Somewhere below the surface of a January grave,
My history rests just fine until a man returned to lure me
 from the wood only to find he could not find my heart.

Finding bones instead, he laughed, 
gathered them into the night --- 
a filtered green tradition. 
Think poets and their everlasting labels.

The river man,
Earthen, viney and tough, he 
stole the bones of my history, 
but he did not steal my heart. 
How filtered you are, he whispered.

No one can reconstruct a heart 
from its history. Go and find my heart. 
When you return --- well, go and find 
what you will find.

Like time and bad weather, fear passes. 
Oranges are gathered. A hypnotic roll of tickets 
distributed and taken, tear themselves in half 
and flutter to the ground.

Rained upon, snowed under, bleached and buried.
 Graves turn. Blue stones erupt into gardens 
new laid. My heart lies somewhere. 
Here. On a page I cannot read.

He is a poet and has resurrected me 
in words cleverly edited to bones
and a twinkle.

See, the problem is he found my heart 
between sheets of white and has fallen in love 
with it there. Why not? It’s so clean 
and he can rest, as once I could rest.

No more. I haunt myself with itching
 and burials as scattered as the tickets
 the trees leave. No passage here.

Far away by now, he remembers fondly, 
profitably, everything love taught him.

The bastard.

5 comments:

chickory said...

whoa. that was excellent. really beautiful and edgy.

Sending Pages Out to Dry said...

thanks!

moi said...

Just wanted to drop by to thank you for judging the Haiku Monday Chickory hosted. I'll be back to read more of your poetry. Cheers!

Aunty Belle said...

Hi Alicia,

also hopping over to thank you for the insights and judging of Haiku at Ande's. Please come back often.

alicia said...

Hi Moi et Aunty Belle,
My pleasure and I'll be stopping back for sure.
AG