(another one for the "Bone Cycle")
Bone's Memory
I can tell that it's raining
without looking or listening.
After a gallon
of chopped celery,
a negative space
in the shape
of the handle
of a knife
persists
in the hand.
The point where
bone meets bone
wants to become
bone,
wants to become
a monument
to the form
of its function.
This function wants
to become fossil.
This body remembers
what it does
long after
the mind has forgotten.
A Prayer Like Gravity
Mundus vult decipi
Wow – I like this. Especially since the rain has abated and the sun has finally returned here.
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thanks OoaC! Not much rain around here lately, but the heat has finally broken.
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A very provocative and excellent read. I really like ‘where bone meets bone’ wanting to become bone. I think that image will stick with me all day. >KB
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Thanks KB–Very much appreciated.
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oh, the stories my old bones could tell
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Yep…afraid my line of work has aged my bones prematurely…
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what do you do?
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I’ve been in food service in one way, shape or form since I was fifteen. Bussing, waiting, hot-kitchen, cold-kitchen, restaurants and catering. It is a business that is particularly unkind to certain parts of one’s anatomy. I started getting varicose veins before I was thirty. The weather makes itself known in one old broken toe, a bad back and my prematurely arthritic hands.
My wife and I have owned and operated a catering company for the past 8 years, and we’re now working on opening a restaurant. Should be open in Mid-October.
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In this poem “stark” comes into full form, blossoms and becomes beautiful. I really like this one Gravity…. A gallon of chopped celery?
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Thank you J–such a kind and creative way to put it. “Stark blooming”–
…and yes, a gallon, this is what we do to pay the bills, we operate a catering company. My life is often consumed by mass-quantity food-prep.
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This poem reminds me of the story about a man who had lost his memory. If I recall correctly, someone taught him to braid, but when later asked to braid three strands he could not recall what it was he was being asked to do. But if left in a room with the three strands, he would pick them up and braid them. When asked what he was doing with his hands, he couldn’t say. There is such a thing as muscle memory, places in the brain where physical action (and not the name of the action) are stored. It is quite eerie.
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Yes, Jilanne–I am familiar with this phenomenon. Muscle memory is a very real deal, neurologically speaking. Funny enough I was actually going to finish this piece with the lines:
“every muscle’s
memory lingers”
…but decided that this was really more about old bones not wanting to behave than it was about muscles. Perhaps that is another poem….
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Stunning. Your words are like exposed nerves – pulsing with energy from another world 🙂 Loved it.
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Thank you so much Natalie–you are very kind.
The energy (pain) is very much a part of this world I’m afraid, but I like how you put that.
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I’ve chopped enough till I had the imprint of the knife in my hand bone. Very nice description. Do you have a restaurant?
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Thank you Alice–and well, remember the big changes I was speaking of a few months ago? Well, the wife and I have been operating a catering company for the past eight years and we are now in the process of opening a restaurant. I have been holding off talking about it too much on here for reasons too numerous to get into just yet, but soon I will be able to tell all…
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Ah. The dent on the hand the shape of the knife handle is explained. I’ve had catering and restaurant friends. I’ve also cooked large batches of things.
Best of luck on your restaurant adventures.
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goosebumps, JC – excellent finish.
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Thank you Miriam– I’m glad you liked it.
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