The Sound of Bones\ by Michael Pagán

Like moving dabs, the star-pale
children exasperate the night
into pieces of thread; hands
trembling “Ambush.”

To whisper, hopefully: “Eyes, me?”
The light crooking & bending its still
branches seeming longer, bouncing

back, tree in shape, the scarred bending
of sounds like dry weeds; trees & the sky
& unblemished senses come alive crushing
the fronts of buildings, the arms of lives rowing
back & forth & back

again, smashing benches—voice.

Voice. Me, walking, but only with her
I think of “Place” as being inside her
lap: a bowl covered with cloves & I
into her bowl.

“There does exist a people-spell there,”
I think even God had said once, moved.
Moved by her, before “I run.”

“I run over you,” he said. “Because you’re
there—just there—& because I put you
there to hear the sound of bones unraveling.

But she was three, with me, remembering
herself as two candles to keep from falling,
while drinking all of the moon up

with a great, big red straw.

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