a solstice poem

by beeprint

he talks to bones

the bones have always been there
cradled in bleached dirt,
hip and rib resting against root and rock
this is their world: stone layer, basin born

resource management brings bulldozers
scraping mountain backs bare
excavating the past

so they call him and he comes
three cold hours north on gravel
to ask bones their name, time and tribe.
sometimes they are quiet
too old to belong
bled dry into dirt:
their words salt on wind

they hire him to talk to bones
taking marrow as consent
to dig, scrape, pave their plans
back to another world
where we have no business being.

[thank you aunt marcia for the story]

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