Tuesday, May 1, 2012

If I were an artist I'd draw
a skeleton
and the bones of its feet
would rest at the bottom of the page,
not entirely anatomically correct,
but enough so
that the shins would follow lithely next
and the legs would stretch
into the smooth bowl of the pelvis

and I would place the rib cage just above
the air of the torso
and stack the vertebrae
one atop another
past the tired half-moon of the shoulders
and shape the subtle hollow of the neck

where I would rest your larynx
and deftly string your vocal chords
so you can continue your soft humming
to the tune of internal struggle
which is always swelling,
an unassuming mushroom cloud,
just past the wreckage of your broken lips.