18 Bones

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

For the little girl found drowned in a river trying to get to America.

18 Bones

 

These words, like water,

Flow into my idea,

Finding the shape of it.

A hand, in this case,

18 bones, tendons, ligaments,

Muscle, fat and skin

 

My hand moves,

Driven by my intention,

This hand my words have made.

Guide my 18 bones,

Let my hand be kind when it may.

 

My words become hand,

Become words again.

But now I have, I find, no words.

My words have all drowned.

My hand is still.

 

A river is not kind or cruel,

It seeks its course indifferently,

Giving and taking,

Embraced or whipped by the rain,

Warmed or burned by the sun.

 

The river is blind and deaf,

It knows only touch.

And so it knows the difference

Between a child’s cupped hand

And the shape of 18 bones.

 

What good are words.


Submitted: May 21, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Stellanotte. All rights reserved.

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