Tag Archives: bones

Sylvia Plath

To be a mother, and to double as a dark sorceress, a cleaver of dried bones, could not have been easy. Especially in the 1950s. They burned witches then, as well as reds and blacks and faggots, and other things … Continue reading

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Bonepick

I tell myself stories in the dark, Anya. Whether or not they help is either of primary consequence or none at all. Sometimes you have to walk through the boneyard in order to reach the garden. This what I tell … Continue reading

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Musing

Birdless solitude, Winter’s song, slow, deep, solemn– Musing upon spring.

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Bensonhurst

Bones of my birthplace, splintering in rapid tow– There’s no place like home?

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Stir

Scraping grave remnants, the woman’s canceled bones stir– You will know my name.

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Six

   I was six when I found out I’d never become a super hero.    We were in the kitchen. Me, my mother and father. My father’s hand was around my mother’s throat. He had a wild, bloodshot, not-there look … Continue reading

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Garden

In seeding the bones fragile means to nuptial growth among mortal remains.

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