what is it that bones are saying,
so trapped and silenced by their fate beneath
skin?
whose idea was skin?
let it wash off: your flesh is a figment of your imagination.
I suppose I wouldn't be soft anymore
but I wouldn't have to open my mouth
for people to hear my secrets.

bones are trees
with initials carved in
and hearts left whole
when they have really been broken.
bones have deeper thoughts than you
or the circles that spiral the trunk of a thousand year old
stump.

bones know nothing
and everything.
you don't have to tell them.
they are made of whispers, too afraid
to say anything aloud
(though they wouldn't be heard if they did).

for years we have
speculated,
wondered why the earth's bones
are so very brittle
and why ours are so very
small;
smaller than the thoughts we pretend to think
when we avoid eye contact or run out of things to say.
what lies between one and the next
is simply a breath we neglected to take
when we were waiting to hear if everything was going to be okay.

bones are wise.
without listening we cant see.
what is the point of walking around with our hands over our eyes
and looking for our beds
when we can lie down,
remember to breathe,
and rest in the gentle hand
that we've always pushed away?