The Comparing of Bones
by Christopher Shipman The last time I spoke to you,
alone in the hospital
bed of wires,
delayed remote controls.
I can’t remember your voice,
phantom shadow left in that cold
smell, walls musty white,
thin light under the crack of a door.
Closed thoughts wake like lids.
The ceiling of your grave
is caked with questions–
did I do right by you,
is every night nested,
can you rest when I try,
fail to pry open your wishes?
The clouds look like your beard,
their absence like yours.
Every time I count the time
it’s never an answer.
Turn the earth like fists
of a ditch-digger.
Only the glimmer of your
cheap gold wrist watch
could settle some bets,
would settle your bones.
Untie my plea with your plastic
teeth if the skeleton is gone.
I don’t know how long dust waits.
Just give me your grave secrets.
Howl from sky, fire, soil, sea.
I can only live as long in you
as you can in me. |
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© 2007 prickofthespindle.com |
Christopher Shipman was born in Memphis Tennessee in 1982. He received is BA in English at Arkansas State University, where he began his work in poetry with poet Rick Lott. Shipman’s poems have appeared in other journals including Bohemian Rat, Arkansas Review, Arkansas Literary Forum, Clark Street Review, and Poesy. He is now pursuing an MFA degree in creative writing at Louisiana State University. |