Listen, for this I’ve never spoken:
when I hang on the edge of anything, the feet of
a skeleton hammer my claws in a little deeper.
Here’s the Sound that those bones make when they tap on my windows,
knocking like the sun on the moon, with a bump and a shove all dressed up
in a smile. You may say they are rescuing me but
after a good look you’ll see they wear
dull bronze crosses that dangle over a coat in which lake water drips out of
to the tune of Hallelujah, out of all the pockets’ little tears. You will think
their wooden shoes are strong but if you look, look
close here, you’ll see the way even they wear down to paper.
This is when the bones make
friendly with my current residents, Those
who are wrapped tight in downy flesh, ripe
with shades of daisy and picnic plaid. They’ll all grab drinks together. Now
is when they come, shift into the shape of knuckles, china joints who extend
and retract and as I climb into their palms
without my present guests. Look, here: see the
bones sprinkle their decay on my kitchen floor and skirt as I crawl to them.
My blog is franciann.wordpress.com and I live in the US and go to college in VT.
Thanks for reading, I love what you guys do over at Poettree.