The Bones: A Poem

I don't usually plan to write a poem. Usually it just comes to me out of the blue. Sometimes I don't even know I have written one until I look back over my journal and there it is. It's almost like I am channeling something greater than me. I am not an actor, only a vessel through which action (the writing of the poem) takes place. It's a little unnerving really since it is almost as if I am not present. I discovered this poem (or half of it) in my journal about a week ago. I loved the raw rough feel of it, the connection to food, the juicy body parts -- and wrote the other half a little more consciously over the past week. It feels true and right -- the distillation of the experience of trying to understand the story of my life, which feels alternately meaningfully huge and silently hidden. Thanks for reading.

The Bones

I’m looking for the meat
For the dark, sour substance of the thing
The juicy bits and morsels that slip
Between the cracks
Get covered in dust
Or rot in the corner

I’m looking for the story
Underneath the story
Looking for the secrets you never whisper
(even in the softest voice)
for the moments you wish you could take back
and the words that echo and slap
my face the moment you utter them

i don’t want to hear the pretty lies
i don’t care about politeness
or the carefully stacked house of cards
i only want truth
a declaration of reality
a single shot at redemption maybe
but always truth

i’m looking for the center of the thing
i want to suck this marrow from the bones
swish the essence in my mouth
swallow and digest
i want to dip the tips in a salty brine
that stops sugar in its tracks
and instantly puckers the lips of your sweetest smile

i want to pry apart your insides
inspect all the parts
dissect your spirit while i hold my breath
i need to see it all
i need to touch every piece
every sorrow, every joy, every pain,
every fear and insecurity
i want them all
laid out and perfectly arranged
on the table while i eat my breakfast

i have to see farther and deeper
peeling away the layers and layers of soft rubbery fat
fatty spirit, fatty soul, fatty body
we must shed this all and stand naked
here in the spotlight
facing each other in a house of mirrors
we have to see everything

i want to cut you down the middle
inspect the heart that beats there
in your chest
touch it, measure it, poke my finger around the insides
i need to understand the way it thumps
the way it swells and shrinks
creating pockets and shadows in between
the folds of skin

i want to touch the stomach and spleen
squeeze the liver to see what you’re made of
taste the ovaries
and gather the testes into my water glass
i want to see you all
pulled apart, like chicken bones
wings sucked dry, emptied of all meaning
in a pile of downy feathers

[maybe then i can begin to move]

i want to sift through the layers
peel back all the skin
hear and see and devour my story
until there’s nothing left but a heap of
meaningless words
a series of images and sounds
that do not even slightly resemble me

in the end i will shit all this
into a freshly dug hole
cover it with leaves
and plant a tree

in the end i will bury the bodies
in the soft brown earth
and plant spring bulbs

i will swallow the sorrow
pour it into the earth,
muster a river that will
smooth the edges of all these bones
carry the feathers to the sea
and rip these anchors from the flesh of my body

i will model this fear after my deepest hurt
shape it into loaves of pain
then look away quickly
as i heave them into the ocean
to dissolve in their salty, rocking tomb

i can’t carry this story any longer
it wants to be compost
to simmer in the sun until it is nothing
but soil, plain old dirt
that will gently cover someone else’s bones
and stories and feathers someday
the meat of the daffodil bulbs and oak tree
will then work relentlessly to break apart those bones
uncover those stories and i will be free

To go or to stay . . .

How can I possibly want two things with the same intensity that are exactly the opposite of each other? How can I want so badly to travel and at the same time want so badly a home? Is it possible to have both? Is it possible to live somewhere and travel freely? Can I really have everything I want?

Every time I read my friend Wade's stories of traveling the world (see the link in upper left corner), I get this uncomfortable sensation that I know all too well. Restlessness. The need to move and see the world. Yet, I keep delaying this movement. Keep feeling pulled back by my desire to set some roots and follow a dream. To know a place as well as I know my own rough, wrinkly and calloused hands. I am both happy and restless. I do not have the boldness of my younger years and yet I do truly believe that I can have both: a home and a wanderlust.

I have to constantly remind myself that the romantic notion and reality of travel that Wade lives by never really worked for me, though he does it brilliantly. I know my self. I get restless for home when I'm on the road and I get restless for the road when I'm at home. I could never travel the world for eight years or even 3 years. I love my nest as much as I love the next bend around the corner. And one without the other makes me feel like I'm constantly falling over. My Gemini rising keeps me moving, my Taurus moon keeps me grounded and my Libra sun strives to find just the right balance between the two.

If you ever dreamed of traveling the world and didn't do it, then read Wade's blog. It will make you want to crawl out of your skin, or just put on your boots and start walking. Or if you just want to read the stories of a vagabond traveler, follow the link in the upper left corner. You never know where you'll end up.