Stranded
When you see the word 'bones' it means
'your will to live'
and you see this word as you write,
forgoing the metaphor
of a grove of Birch trees,
like bones stabbed into the hillside,
you forget that you hung from those branches
as a boy,
in your sister's winter coat,
chewed mittens, foam boots.
You remember all the broken bones
and mended words along the way,
always careful to hang from branches
that won't break
when you knot the rope
and swing beside the trunk.
You write about your death
like a wasp that knows
it will die
yet it cannot stop the stinger
from reaching
for buried bones.
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