Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Bree- Three Poems

holy bones

there is a heaviness about bones.
i do not bring myself to pick up the
deer skull even if it was washed clean by
the snow, and the waters coming
from the drain in the ditch.
i am not ready.
im not scared but bones are holy.
i am a big girl. i pick up my own,
still it might help if you stood
up on the street when i pick
up a skull for the first time.

for now i take half a spine. a big leg bone.
part of a jaw with teeth.

Always On the Outs

Cardinal lands to rest on a bough
two inches below an already-sat robin.
What? i think, They dont care about personal
space? Breathing room?
Still there, the odd couple, even after as long as it took
me to clumsily type these miniature keys.
And there yet!
Of course, little birds have lionshares
of space in which to breathe.
Outdoors eternally!
What a lark!


the Sun is a great fucking teacher. he should get a raise.
lifts the dress of any woman files by, the paperwork
he keeps or shreds
accordingly and on time, keeps like the shed
where the shadow of a figure
has been drawn by wind and time
into the final frame
before that door, put there almost as if by the farmer,
as a scarecrow scares people,
not critters,
keeps time like a shadow, never raises
his voice and birds pick up
after his such trace despair—
why, he leaves trace enough
for the birds only,
which means he leaves none.
it is clastless how he vastly and at once retains me,
like a wall of bells ringing
held to the metronome
of dripping leaves.

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