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.