The Bonechime

by Jesse Anger

We’ve all got bones under our skin—
skeletons within.

Nakedness deceives as much
as mirror-masks and such

disguises. The soft intonation.
Under conversations

pitched light, lie these restless bones,
my own. A broken home,

a silence quickened in the room.
The cold window moon.

My inner space, the keep of fear,
the ringing in my ear.  

Wired to my naval’s wheel,
under towed, pitched and reeled

and spindled down into the hold—
God, these bones are old.

The cold reply resurfaces,
the skull-hollow thing

that seeks to void, and sucks to dine—
The still-born alive.

Here is where it all begins.
Exhume them. Hang them in

rings. String them into chimes.
Remember them sometimes.

← BACK          -          NEXT →

Far Too Close is out of print from The Blasted Tree Store.

JESSE ANGER

Contributing Author

Other works on The Blasted Tree:

• SMALL WAR