literature

unsecretive

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onyxdemoness's avatar
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Literature Text

the skeleton is not in your closet.
perhaps it has shed a tibia
or a radius
there, but that is not where
it has come to rest.

at the foot of the hill, you stop
blood thrumming
when you see a dropped vertebrae.
you dig your nails into the red clay
looking for a rib or a clavicle
but you find in your palm
only broken glass.

in your nose is the sting of tequila, in your feet
are splinters of finished wood.
and you find
broken-kneed, fitting your skull back upon your cervical spine
that the skeleton is instead
beneath your skin.

Here is your father, here is his blood,
Here is the smoke and the alcohol.
Here is the fear choking your throat
and Here is the sudden quiet, the dawn.
Here is the hue of your brother's face
and Here is the neighbor's hand.
On Saturday I went to an all-day poetry summit with the lovely ~livingcomforteagle. There, we did a sort of workshop, awkward because there were far more people than expected - we sort of journaled on a prompt, 'family secrets', and were supposed to figure out 'who-what-when-where-why', and then pick out vivid images and turns of phrase, since we didn't have time to write the actual thing. I finished mine while someone else was speaking (terribly rude, I know) and this was the result. My journal-thing, reproduced below:

Who? Skeleton, maybe? Dad, me, you, Ellery. I dunno, do we have a family secret? We have stuff we don't really talk about. Maybe "The skeleton is not in your closet."
What? Broken glass/crockery, lots of alcohol. Tangible memories - blood, pounding hearts, glass, smoke, noises, scattered words. Anatomy, of course. Femur, tibia, radius, ulna.
Broken-kneed
skull-less


I'm gradually getting acquainted with soul-baring in my writing. Eventually I may say all this directly.
© 2009 - 2024 onyxdemoness
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gliitchlord's avatar
Expertly crafted.

:+favlove: