Sunday, March 31, 2013

bone

i am the daughter of a bone,
i was born starving.

i shed my skin like a laundered swamp spirit--
i'm naked now, so kiss me,
fuck me,
make me feel like i'm worth something for a minute.

hold me, i'm a sentient plastic bag blowing on a branch.
i make a lot of noise,
but it isn't music,
no more than screaming is singing.

see the sun.
it mocks me,
it spins across the sky out of reach,
teasing.

little things rise green out of the dirt,
snow around their necks;
the pretty rising dead, out to visit themselves upon the spring--
they stab their way into being.
they pretend to recognize the air, when all they know is suffocation.

i am the daughter of a bone,
willing to do anything just to feel wanted.
otherwise,
i will crack the moon and call it my covering,

ill-white,
pulling but never having,
glowing but stone dead and more bitter than any man could ever understand.
______

for real toads mini challenge, april come she will.

15 comments:

HermanTurnip said...

Raw, sensitive wounds given a voice. Visceral, and cutting. This was a great piece!

Kay L. Davies said...

Whoa, I don't think I'm old enough to read this, Shay.
However, I did, and you are SOME kinda writer, my dear, some kinda amazing writer.
K

hedgewitch said...

Whoa. The last three lines are as good as anything ever written. This isn't one I'm going to wax verbose on--it's too good for that. A fine, clean surgical knife to the heart, Shay.

Susie Clevenger said...

This is raw poetry..packs a verbal knife...Great work!! I bought Night Blooms. :)

Margaret said...

Hold me, tucked away in this poem of passionate venting really struck me. Sometimes those that want just to be loved, protest the loudest?

gabrielle said...

ill white,
pulling but never having

this was bone chilling, a silent scream

Marcoantonio Arellano said...

raw, intense, truth baring

We enter into our primordial being

Gracias

Kerry O'Connor said...

little things rise green out of the dirt,
snow around their necks;
the pretty rising dead, out to visit themselves upon the spring--
they stab their way into being.
they pretend to recognize the air, when all they know is suffocation.

To me, this stanza alone achieves all that Eliot's opening lines of Waste Land set out to do, but with the addition of a real sense of flesh and bone mortality assigned to the plants.
Fine, fine work!

Lolamouse said...

I love every stanza of this poem, Shay.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Wowzers, whatever will you do for an encore? Seriously, this is a fantastic write....."born starving"....."pulling but never having"......."daughter of a bone". As Joy said, cuts like a knife.

Grandmother said...

This is stunning, and although I seem to say that about your poetry a lot, I agree with Hedge that those last three lines are stunning!

Helen said...

It will be difficult to think of April in any other way after reading this.

April, she has come.

lapis said...

To me, "I'm a daughter of a bone" means that her conception was only about sex. She feels worthless because she wasn't truly wanted, as far as she knows. So she's left trying to find herself reflected in another man's face because she wasn't loved by her father---as if being loved physically might make her real, might make her feel worth something for a moment.

Her very existence is a defiance of the rising sun. She was never meant to be at all---in her own eyes, anyway.

These are very powerful sections; definitely my favorites:

"the pretty rising dead, out to visit themselves upon the spring--
they stab their way into being.
they pretend to recognize the air, when all they know is suffocation"

"ill-white,
pulling but never having,
glowing but stone dead and more bitter than any man could ever understand"

Poet Laundry said...

'i am the daughter of a bone' is so chilling, so perfect.

'hold me, i'm a sentient plastic bag blowing on a branch.
i make a lot of noise,
but it isn't music,
no more than screaming is singing.' Wow, what an amazing metaphor that is.

And those final two stanzas are just breathtaking.

Mama Zen said...

Damn, girl. This is raw, primal rage brilliantly conveyed.