Dedicated to the Bones

In Poetry on October 19, 2011 at 7:52 am

Two people chained to the loss
of company, we hold ourselves
close, pretending I am the branch
the  dove carried.  But I am only
the wood in the olive tree,
petrified from an ancient flood,
trying hard to breathe.  Though I
acknowledge the beauty of the lore,
of wood gone solid and wild;
I can only cradle stone.

If I dismantle this weight
where shall I leave it?
Upon a mountain altar
high, blue, or now,
still upon my bed, in the dark
of night? Save me from the copper
ore, bound with iron.  Furnish me
with a palm tree, tomorrow
or a desert pear–anything
that shares more life–

Than you
And I.

Rita Meacham lives in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.  She studied liberal arts at Sarah Lawrence College and works as a self-employed writer since over a decade. Her work has appeared in The Coachella Review, Lost Souls in the Fish Bowl, The Village Voice and others.


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