BY WILL REGER
We go on about bones
in our sorcery and poetry—
the perfect talisman portending death,
the perfect romantic prop,
the perfect stuff from which
to construct a mystery.
If only the bones would conspire--
we might live another age,
we might conjure more luck,
we might call up the dead.
A dog will take any bone
and crack it for the marrow,
the birthplace of the blood.
We want to know the future.
We throw bones into the fire.
Drizzle the blood of a pure beast.
What do the scapula cracks
say to us out of the flames?
Take my bones when I die, love,
clean them and bleach them
under a hot desert sun.
Stack them in an earthen jar,
thigh bones upright, ribs, and skull
at the bottom full of phalanges.
Carve mystery runes on my pelvis,
whisper mumbo-jumbo rhymes--
anything to freak the neighbors out.
Leave my bones on the porch with a
scrawl in red above them on the wall:
‘Gather ye hope all ye who enter, for here
is a house that honors its ancestors.’
And on sunny mornings when it’s quiet,
except for children playing down the street,
somewhere a lawn mower burrrrring,
and behind the neighbor’s windows
you hear lovemaking, my love,
pour out my knuckle bones
on the porch, summon me up, and
tell me what is it you are wearing.
Will Reger serves as the Poet Laureate for the City of Urbana, IL. He has published poems since 2010, including his first book, Petroglyphs (2019). Many of these poems are linked to www.twitter.com/wmreger. When not scribbling poetry, he enjoys playing the nanxiao in the woods.