(Murat’s clouds reminded me of this poem I’ve been fiddling with for a while. The first line may seem familiar. I’m still not convinced it’s complete, but this is the latest iteration.)
Under the bones of the sky
she splinters into inadequate words.
Her sun-baked terracotta heart
only beats when its broken,
only bleeds when it rains,
only skips when she doesn’t
hold it tightly in her hands.
She draws dots and calls them stars,
she draws zigzags and calls them tears,
she draws swirls and calls them life.
The dust changes the color
of the quickly drying paint.
The wind smoothes her edges
and the bones drift away.
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Under the bones of the sky she splinters into inadequate words
3 comments:
Nice image of "weathered" human heart, smooth-edged by the wind. So glad to see your blog name, which I admire, as a poem starter.
I posted an older poem of mine today. Come over and check it out if you'd like...
I really enjoyed your poem. Every good home should hum with lost little magical spaces. Between Einstein’s house and Darwinian plumbing (see September’s “Writing is to Love”) you and I would make some serious contractors. Thanks.
Always a big fan of repetitions: on several readings, I was enjoying the rhythms of repetition and missing that exquisite image of the "sun-baked terracotta heart" and the way it holds so well with the reps. Feels like a complete poem, beginning of a long walk of an extended poem, or even the opening of a short story.
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