Bone dry bone dry

the clay man says it

picks up a piece

snaps it like a wrist



I repeat it until the meaning breaks off

until the words feel oblong on my tongue

a strange measure of dryness in things once wet.


I try

stick dry

why not

fossil dry

why not?

igneous rock dry

why not

inland sea dry

why not?


Bonedry worries at me

exposed under a harsh sun

murdered with nicks of violence and left for animals

not buried safely away in damp earth


I may not be paying appropriate attention to the class


My bones are not dry

they are moist and ready for action

I keep them that way

wrapped carefully away from the air

levering away at their business


I store my minerals there

I make my blood


The clay man drops

the snapped pieces in a bucket of slip

and repairs the greenstick fracture



I think is a trick

bones should learn

but when I try it they refuse to knit

falling from their joints

lying about like an old kill

I absently scratch gnaw marks with my nails


I resolve to keep my bones covered


I may not be paying appropriate attention to the class


© Mikaela Castledine 2011


About Mikaela

I am an artist and writer living in the Perth Hills
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