I give you these ribs to help you live.
They form a bridge across
of wild rain, and sun,
and the apples
in a basket that were brought
and placed next to each of the bones.
Between each porcelain thread
are little voices, hanging
gently, smouldering like the final wisp
of a spider’s web long vacated,
their soft hands so carefully aligned
in this thin bone cloth.
And those promises voiced in the harshest
throat of winter or the thrill of April
rain become us now.
The earth is fresh; the world
is a curve in the heart, and
where it beat.
Marcello Giovanelli is a writer and academic from Leicestershire, UK. He has recently published poetry in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Poetry Plus, and The Poetry Village.
Post a Comment