Bone’s Memory

(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.









In the bone night



When night falls for the bones,
Nothing comes from the dark,
Nothing goes into the light
and the marrow burns on its own.

The tunnel bends 
to its own demise 
and turns in its cold sack
as the sun dies 
and the skies close down
their colors.

They drown us in the hues of
someone else's nightmares while
our own forgotten dreams
lie down in the grass and

all we can do is lie down
with them and smell it coming 
like we smell our own sweat 
and wait for the rain to wash it all away.

From the darkness, from 
the depths, a crystalline air 
vibrates our structured souls 
until they shatter into light

while the bones beat and rattle 
within us, playing 
us like a single drum.