Abstract
Rose’s Bones
My great-grandmother’s bones were carved
from the granite rock of the Vosges Mountains. Wide
and unrelenting, thick as rhinoceros plates
with more marrow than men.
Fine china and teacup too delicate in her
golem fist. Every dainty dress ripped seams
under the stress of her great broadness.
When the country was made poor
by the panic of men and war, my great-grandmother
added her pinky to the pot and fed her whole family
for years on the rich stock.
She had rivers of blood enough to carry her family,
a frame as big as her house—she was more shelter
than wife. She was the whole estate, a dowry of
ancient oak and stone and iron veins. Where others
were beauty, she had sturdy.
Big Boned means Rose in my family’s tongue.
They gave me her name, which gave me this frame—
born with her skeletal mountain, the marrow
of matriarch, and open doors.
The pillar of her spine stands me a head above
my mother, tall enough to look my father in the eye,
meet open palms with closed fist. Stand firm
in a stampede of wiry boys and their mischief.
Like her son’s.
They named my grandfather’s white-toothed
charm Sweet & Lovable. My mother called him
Dewer’s & Politics, knew him by the sound
of open palmed smack on the ass of a
passing waitress. She says I have
his magnets in my mouth. Magnets and stone.
A mineral inheritance. My mouth a lure, my bones
an anchor. I am all marrow and attraction. Splintering
doorframes on entry, I am as wide
as I am polar. Shifting compasses with my sway.
A giant love, all pull and sturdy.
Whiskey Tongue to the Body
It’s okay to spread
wide. Your lock is rusted
obsolete and foolish anyway.
You can run wild now.
The clock in your bones chimes
hard. Take its humming
impulse and wander into
the rich night. It’s okay to frequent
dark corners. Light them
with the hot welcome of your lips.
Hunger means more than
wine and fresh batteries.
It’s ok to wish for sweat
and chase the skin slap
of friendly hips. It’s okay to bay
like a bitch in heat. Bent back
and howling like the animal
itching beneath your skin.
There is another type
of power that your mother
never explained. Her marches
forty years behind your open
chest and yes you can be as wet
and wanton as your skin
whispers you should. This
isn’t about the sin inside.
God made your flexible
squeeze for a reason. Holy!
Holy! It’s okay to be a craven
creature brightly plumed
and open. Caw and crow
with you hungry throat and know
you are made with strings worth
plucking. The music of your need
is a midnight gospel singing
Amen!