I crack the brickle bone and then carve back
through muscle taut with cell memory,
past tendons that could never teach us love.
We were bone on bone all the way.
I slice past ridges where my fingertips once danced,
filet the contours of youthful sighs, where repeated
good-byes were a chance to begin again.
This carcass is rotting, and the back and forth sawing
from a knife that's grown too dull for its mauling
has left my hands itching from the putrid remains.
Stand by, watch the blood congeal on the ground.
I guess you can never cleanly cleave the meat that's been
hanging so long in your backyard.
Just let it drop:
the roast,
the ****
See how the bones settle into the soil.
Who knows what might grow there?
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
I crack the brickle bone and then carve back
through muscle taut with cell memory,
past tendons that could never teach us love.
We were bone on bone all the way.
I slice past ridges where my fingertips once danced,
filet the contours of youthful sighs, where repeated
good-byes were a chance to begin again.
This carcass is rotting, and the back and forth sawing
from a knife that's grown too dull for its mauling
has left my hands itching from the putrid remains.
Stand by, watch the blood congeal on the ground.
I guess you can never cleanly cleave the meat that's been
hanging so long in your backyard.
Just let it drop:
the roast,
the ****
See how the bones settle into the soil.
Who knows what might grow there?
NaPo 4/2
This is a song now, have a listen!
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