Bones and branches

the bed swallowed you thursday night
rumpled the sheets, stripped the pillows
and left your bones, a heap in the yard
i mistook for bleached branches.

you were all veins and cartilage friday morning,
lobe of your ear red with bites,
skin between your fingers split with the cold.

I didn’t think to ask how you stood without skeleton,
if you could feel your guts being tempted by gravity.
When you went searching for your thigh bone
you must have found it, ivory against the burnt wood.

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Personal Poetry

One of my past creative writing teachers always made the distinction between personal poetry and public poetry – the former is usually not very good, but a lot of times it’s something that is necessary in order to get stuff out. I don’t really ever post the personal poetry I write on here, because for the most part it’s not very good. But I think sometimes it is good to put that out there, if not just as a means to work through stuff.

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