The Palace of Bones

Canvas

Canvas I. Magic comes and goes in handfuls And for weeks we don’t grow, Or don’t think we are growing. We will refuse water and light, Or swallow so much we can’t speak. Then chaos, the water is on fire. Don’t let me touch your fingers. Don’t come close enough I can smell the death on you. The smell is too tempting If you know too much about it. The old man claims he fixes clocks. Why not leave them broken? A clock is only an instrument. II. If I knew how to speak to you— If I could write letters to you all day And be answered in so many words— Would life be better without reasons for it? 17 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. Let tonight answer me with angels. Let them be stuck here, hanging From the branches of the trees, Then let them be movable as paper. If I were a man, would I be less afraid? Would stealing feel more possible? III. I am now in prison, raging, With millions of bleeding wings. At this hour, it is too late to be an arsonist. It is too late to admit the lost; Miles of aching road, weeds, heavy rock— War. Black against my heart. The heroes sit in broken chairs. From here to the next town, You can smell love Like a pot of hot sauce. Footprints flee into their doorways— Into their long, weak halls. IV. I want to tell you to keep moving forward. Full of restlessness and jealousy. 18 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. If you are dying, hold your hands still, Behind your back. The cradle will burn. All I can think of is the Baltic Sea, Where all of time flows into water. After the snow falls And the canvas is once again white, You’ll find that everything is buried inside you. The man you’ve become will never have a grave. V. Do you see the patches of silver grass, Where the grapevines grow Like broken strings from harps and violins? Why are they tempting? That’s where it’s true, those bones throbbing, Like splinters of light. It’s not the bones That rattle, but the voices—Imagine, Voices hungry for nothing, dried-up Sunflowers hanging from their mouths Only for decoration. The bones are true to themselves— Utterly faceless like brick or wood. Death is one loud party. The only substance is the voice And in each language, you can finally hear. 19 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...