The Palace of Bones

The Palace of Bones

The Palace of Bones Last year I hurried through The hallways of the Louvre, The ghosts of history confined In one heavy album full of eyes. The Mona Lisa, monarch, token Of womanhood, the poor woman, Strangers crowded around her Like the hanging of a witch And the precious Young Martyr, hands Tied over her chest with white ribbons, Sinking peacefully into the sea, Bathing in death, deranged as a headless bird. How much I was like her, Or worse, browsing blissfully Into her glass for my own reflection. Even now those women trouble me, Dancing like a string of pearls That will never clasp; their faces, Their footsteps never stop moving. The Martyr dances on the evening flowers, Drenched in the sweet smell of God With arms white and smooth as paper. Her rivers hang like draperies From God’s window, giving time away So freely birds take it, drop it And chew out its lungs. She dances 6 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. Into blindness like a light when you smell her. When you reach for her hand It tears like paper. On the paper There is nothing but white and cold and night. 7 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. ...