Go then to the boneyard.
Brace yourself against some unknown
name deep in the rows, far
from any concrete angel
or shade-muscular tree, somewhere
off the gravel path over which
so many yearns have passed.

Go then and tell her (him), I
have never tamped on a trust, never
crushed the paw of a clumsy dog.
Tell her (him), I have never pilfered
a dime from a brother’s bank
or a sister’s shoe. Tell her (him)
I, that ambers always warm the night,

And all the ever lashes out is flame.
Tell them that all the lies you ever
tongued were meant to salve a wound
only to coil back and deepen. Tell them
all you’ve ever loved you keep
in a box full of dustrags and moons.

Tell them.    They    will    laugh.
They will laugh as only parents do,
and they’ll take your head to their ribs
and laugh, stroke your brittle hair
and laugh as you shake, as you whimper,
as you moisten the bones that bear you —



Image: Wendy Scofield on Unsplash

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