• Beatrice Iker

Poem #11: The Bones Don't Care

there’s a charnel house

at the back of my property

I go there to sing to the bones


my melodies are ghastly, sorrowful

ruinous, but the bones don’t care


that’s my favorite thing

about the bones in my backyard

they never criticize, never grow tired

they only listen - like patience, rather than

blood, sustains them now


I envy them


why can I never just grasp patience?

I always end up snapping its neck

frustration boils, overflows within me

I prefer my violence to be meaningful

purposeful

as the bones, my sweet bones, know






Recent Posts

See All

As children, we were cursed beneath the oak tree off Dandridge Avenue we forgot our names & everyone else forgot them too Our mothers held us firm, fierce, fast in their trembling arms but their tongu

i would never tell you to forget your wounds stardust is many things but it is not unwounded we are not storyless, challengeless, painless we are stumbling miracles, and lonely in crowds, we are popul