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Click hereKnit one, perl two.
Bones clicked on clack,
rejoined so this old skeleton
jumps out of the closet,
closes the door.
It's easier than expected,
this walking away
from the madness of words
strung through holes catgut taut.
Lacing what? Pearls?
They're rotten with disillusion.
Dissolution hangs leaden,
like pawning that necklace
mama gave me, draping grief
that wasn't even meant
for my neck.
I'm secondhand bones:
in her death,
in your marriage.
If it's not about love,
but loyalty, the flame burns
low, wilting like expectation
denied you
can embrace responsibility,
but it burns out. Truth,
unlike, love weighing cold as pearls
meant for someone else's bones.
over the past two days, and find myself haunted by it. I think it's worthy of a stronger ending, and find myself wondering what would happen if you eliminated the "burning metaphors" and wove the last two verses into one.
Not just because it hurts; I had some trouble with line breaks in the last two stanzas. Strong metaphors and beautiful phrasing.
I do not fear the thermometer.
exceptionally good writing Ange. The visual imagery is fantastic, lending the poem a grim mood.