Bone Poem

Stammer over the little things,
like the towel on the bathroom floor
or the seat up, the rim covered with dried drops
of urine and fine hairs
and you will be trapped--
like listening to the same question asked
three times by the betrayal
of eyebrows raised
in disbelief and doubt--
Your teeth clench, vice-like, and you,
you will know something about yourself.

Your life is a premonition making history
before the end of the final battle,
the shot over the bow,
a legacy of losses
you never intended to leave out to dry
in the too hot sun.

This is the bone poem—
the white, flaking femur
and fine finger bones unearthed
by a clever and hungry dog.
There is no rebirth here,
Only naked truth
where forgiveness is a far off fire,
a Pentecost of the spirit
waiting for another day
to come clean.

At 43, I’ve seen my share of death up close.
In my womb and at my breast—
even my children have been taken
from the power of my Mother arms,
unable to hold them,
to love them into long life.

I have cast off my own death
by looking her straight in the face
and managed not to look away,
unashamed of what I witnessed,
unafraid of that bloody place,
that red, pulsing ball
of light.

I am a woman who sees things with my bones—
from the place in my marrow
where real life grows—
bleeds onto this white page
and the bones of my wisdom
hold up words that don’t stutter
or struggle to find their breath—
This is the place where they hold firm,
the foundation of everything
that really matters.