Last Bone Reject

This poem didn't make it into the book.


The little girl was a quiet gatherer,
collecting words,
ear pressed to doors.

She could slip into empty rooms
like cool through a cracked window.
She read notes she found in drawers.

She saw things
talkers didn't notice:
Every man has two faces.

Sometimes she was too much seen.
By then, telling
was like trying to run in dreams.

But the men told her stories--
bombs strapped to babies, hidden bottles.
She kept their secrets.

Their sins became her own;
they changed her
until she looked for herself in mirrors.

The secrets added up like coins
in a jar that overflowed.
What wanted to spill, she swallowed.

Still, the girl did what she was told,
was seen and not heard.
Her tongue slept in its dark womb.

1 comment:

Julie Bloemeke said...

Lovely! I am sorry that this did not make it in. But thank you for sharing it!

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