And My Bones

And My Bones

Leaves few and green and dead yellow. 

A thumb blending colors against a dusty canvas. 

Open brown fields replacing tar and concrete.

Windows of air between buildings getting wider, then night bleeding black over all that.

She rested her heart heavy head on me.  They will call, she said.  They will tell me they want me.
I can feel it in my bones and fingertips.

She didn’t ask me what I felt and I’m glad she didn’t.  All I felt in my fingertips was the cold and
graffiti-etched plastic of the train window. 

And my bones – they felt shattered.  A body beneath the train, not within.


Early Morning Red

Loose strings, shades of stains on dark pink or early morning red. 

My mother’s skin ghastly and waxen under the humming rectangular light spotted inside with
beetles dead and dry since summer.

A mirror wiped white with steam.  She cannot see her waxen skin, hair woven with spider web
gray, eyes sunk into graves.  If she digs deep enough maybe she can find herself. 

She clears the mist with her sleeve. 

Silent as dawn, her lips part.

Silent as dawn, she cries.

Wishing it were easy to wipe away the last ten years, she sinks back into the tub puddled with
cold water, neck deep in early morning red that never meets day.


Bright Stones

Wind and maybe the swaying of time pushed leaves and dust against our car while the wheels
rolled over road.  My mother drove torwards the sun as if it was the last time she would see it
and the setting meant everything.  The castle, she told me, had wandering stone staircases that
went all the way up to the top, to the wide-open sky.  I hoped we could touch the clouds from up
there – sugar spun into velvet, but sweeter.  I hoped the world would be small from up there,
moving people with my fingers like bright stones.

One minute too late, the smallest measure of time but large enough to require rust spotted chains
and a sign that told us to come back tomorrow.  Her shoes hitting the ground like thunder – who
needs a castle to be up high.  My face brushed her pink sweater and then I was on the car roof,
below her breath, a blanket wrapping us in wide black wings. 

From the roof, I saw each sway and whisper of the branches.  Cars chasing wind and air and
time.  A castle that maybe was anchored to the earth or maybe not.  People on the sidewalks
outside, heads bent stiff against the autumn air.

Today the castle, the cars and trees and people were bold and heavy and tall.  They were not
bright stones I could move with my fingers.