He handled my bones
indifferently.
I watched him reach into the bag
where the flesh is abscessed:
from above, to below
brain and toes.
The heat rose, blossomed
eyes wide open in the aether.
It's like staring at the back of your own head
and wondering about expression.
Once the shot blares out its crucible;
the moon bored through -
straight through the earth.
Is it over? I ask.
No. It never is. Pain coils in the guts.
Was that him?
Still processing my bones.
I'm a vestal in the shade
losing pieces of me to support
a momentum cause, a restriction
a gate across the left-handed path.
The alternative is infertile soil
for furtive burials.
This is where my bones go,
the Reaper, fairies in the dark House
fluffing up the dirt pillow,
for a restless sleep.
YOU ARE READING
Confusion in Underground Clouds
PoetryThis is a collection of assorted poems, detailing one consciousness extending and swirling into another, and another, and another.
