Marrow

[TrevorConway]

A bone spoke to me this morning,
one of my ribs.
“Some day, you’ll be dead,” it said,
“nothing left of your flesh,
just rags of skull and brittle sticks.”
 
I rubbed my finger slowly over
its subterranean mountain range,
sure I couldn’t have heard it,
but it spoke again –
at parks and junctions, the rusted railings of an old warehouse.
 
Leaning on a gate before a field,
I pictured my flesh dropping to a pool,
trickling down a country road.
Tell me, body, what would you do
if your bones deserted you?
 
I’ve always imagined my ribs
wrapped round my organs like the wings of a wounded bird,
as if our bodies began with imperfection.
In bed, I hear my collarbone whisper,
its two halves fused with a knot of mutant bone.
 
“You’re fragile,” it says. But I always knew
that bones are vulgar footnotes to death.
 
I tell that mangled twig:
“I broke you once on a football pitch.
I never felt more alive.”

[Eric Ashford]

Enjoyed this osseous romp Trevor.
I have always liked a bone metaphor or allegory in a write. Great scaffolding!

[TrevorConway]

Thanks, Eric.

Trev

[AlienFlower]

Fun, Trev. I'll be you could find an artist who'd enjoy working with this.

Jackie

[TrevorConway]

Cheers, Jackie. Yes, you could be right. It's very visual.

Trev