Husk

Photo by Guido Mocafico

Rub your spine against me

To scrape off the old skin.

Press a thumb to the underside of the

Square corner of my jaw.

Remind me what life is

And where the throbbing stars lie in the heavens.

 

Each vertebra you grind into my knuckles

Is a wish for later years.

 

A whistle in the darkness

Can summon the spirits,

But I am dried up

Already, as I watch your shoulder blades in the kitchen

And try to summon tears.

 

What will become of me

In the empty winters ahead,

Never as icy as before the calamities

But never, either,

As painless.

I will ache here and there,

Red starbursts behind eyelids

And jumping from elbow to ankle,

Stretching myself naked along the leather of the sofa

And collapsing

In avalanche after avalanche,

Pondering tectonics into this whiskey,

And pontificating hollowly

Upon the Northern Lights I saw once

In a memory

Of a summer night.

 

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