Poem 58

we might have had a conversation about it, and i never even knew it
Some days I awake to the sound of my breath and remember
so vividly a nightmare–one year’s past–of a boy with a bottle
of rum hum drumming against a summer sky.
These are the buds that would grow amongst the bones.
These are the petal faces, purse lipped around pretense
This was is the proper way to grieve:
A man with a camera in his hand; all irises on me….
these are the bones, I told them, we are the bones.
If defeat came in lollipop flavors it might resemble
a regretful bled of cherry and grape; some medicine
we feed our psyche night following night
with robust hopes of satisfaction through masochism.
These are the bones, I told them, we are the
candy wrapper crustaceans foraging the ocean floor;
 the pastel public painting clown faces on our cheeks.
In my sleep-voice we still speak of ambitions:
I would write your name across the water if
I could spin webs from my fingers; I would
Speak my mind to the middle night if I did not
Fear his reply; knowing still what he’ll say to me:
We are the bones, darling, these are the bones.

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