The bones are empty – 

and not. 

Hear the trickle of solitude

sink into the softened, porous

strips of what you left behind

Hear the hiss of the drink-swollen

tongue curse the tinge of your 

mother’s voice, branded onto 

your neck like the curtains – 

ropes –

that swung once, then

twice around the fleshy column

Your hand, twitching – wrist

purpled and pulsing – by your side

You tapped out a dead rhythm 

against your ribs,

left them coughed into dust

There is no more day.

Nothing to leave you with

besides the ache in your own 

throat, carving its 

place against your voice –

Your hand, a knife not known

but felt – 

reaching for the thought

like a comfort: 

There is no more day.

A blink. 

The woods were yellow when

you felt a breath not your

own, clawing

through the knot

winding undone – 

a misplaced sorrow piercing your side

like the silver arrow snapped off

from the blank, dead thicket – 

a vapor like a veil, worn by

the child pressed beneath your ribcage

unblinking and alone.

The bones are empty –

and not. 

To forget is

to watch the worms

crawling out from under

the damp earth of

your mother’s lip –

hand unclenching as 

they greet you 

home 

Something to leave for a 

better day, something to be

hallowed. Harkened.

There is no more day.

A blink.

A cup, resting heavy and content

in the palm: wine swaying, 

pendulum in the wind saying

to be more than what you are –

hand cupped around the soft 

jaw of a calf, expecting milk.

Weigh between the two – 

dry eyes and a dusty calf, 

brought by a beast 

to slaughter on the altar where

the son lay –

something stirring, beneath the

hearth – something waiting

just to be held.

But this night is a good night –

see now, when you close

your eyes – the hand

reaching in

sweeping forward

flocked by the pale breath of

the cows laying blank-eyed 

on the field

still and draped in frosty mold,

creeping through the gaping holes

in their frames

A soft mouth latched onto the

marrow, sucking the 

sweetness out

Milky ale filming

over tongue — 

maggots squirming over 

the arches of the youngest calf,

sinking into its still-warm body

damp and crimson-heavy

You look up, 

dead body still breathing

your mother sewn into your

skin, her nails carved onto 

your bones – a calf cradled

by the earth; your eyes

not your own

You

Heard a voice creaking

a body breaking 

tongue clinging to a 

dead language –

alone

Heard a dawn

weeping  

a forest 

burning

This night is a good night.

Just – 

waiting to be held.