Poem 58 Revised

Some days I awake to the sound of my breath and remember
So vivid a vision—one year’s past—of a boy with a bottle
Of rum hum drumming against a summer sky.
These are the leeks that would linger amongst the bones.
These are the bones, I told him, we are the bones.
With sleep in our speech we still whisper of when
We might come back again, finish what we began.
I would write your name across the water if
I could spin webs from my fingers. Would call
Your cross crow to the night, if I did not fear the reply
Ask what became of the body of that boy:
­We are the bones, darling, these are the bones.
—ECW
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Poem 82

for my grandfather upon his death… in conversation with the brahman poem from several months before. 

Come walk the windowsill between light and
Night. Shut the curtains on the sun, forget
Preoccupations trivial once yours
You are free now. Seize it like the grass roots
From the earth. Your worth no longer tied to
The ticker tape tally of time, a fist
Could crush the grandfather clock; why bother
With trifle threads in the loom, consume them
With the mouth of the sea. Be the palms beneath
Soil shoving mountains to their peak. We speak
Of cancer; of pain; never again. Now
You are free to live amongst miracles.
What fortune, the body merely a loan,
At last, no longer limited by bones.
–ECW

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.
–ECW