Bonereader

a poem of an encounter

Bonereader


Dead-match feet, point
like a fine ballerina.

She reads me like the bones,
leave a scattered absence.

A handful of feathers,
imagine if they were mine!

Today, its my splayed hand 
that makes her scrying bowl.

Vixen speaks to me
from the edges of the wood.
Her voice is a dead beech,
grandmother birch.

Black lips, old blood, greasy. 
	The juice of blackberries,
	the butter of beetles.

It´s the bark of pine
resinous, cracked.

She hums like a moth
to the night inside,
and the night will feed you stars 
 		on carapace dishes.

(Painting by me)

As usual I hold your hand across these vast spaces, as usual I whisper to you of secrets and longings and the hidden things in the forest, of which there are many as the forest is vast and uncompromising. Come closer sweet human, come closer. Restack or recommend me, say a few words of encouragement or cross my palm with silver and your fortune can be found hidden in a poem….