Sandra Kolankiewicz

Holidays with the Skeleton

 

There you are again, a bag of bones 

cursing life when you starved yourself to 

 

get here!  All have deserted you but

your frame—and that not for long, just the 

 

fragile skin holding you together 

like a heart in wax paper.  Decades 

 

passed before you grew a root, but then 

desiccation came upon you, left 

 

all but the scaffold onto which we 

hang our clothes, whether indebted to 

 

you under the skin irrelevant.  

The rooks or starlings argue in the 

 

tree above the cat crossing the snow-

white yard in the dim light, sun rise at 

 

7:46 this morning though 

even now the air seems not to have 

 

acknowledged the sky’s peaking like an 

afterthought.  We’ll slide into evening as 

 

if slipping on the ice in our 

tumblers, having left the Day of the 

 

Dead behind, stumbled through Thanksgiving, 

fallen face down before the manger.  

After Your Extended Illness

After an extended illness, your

children begin to mature.  The one

you never would have expected

behaves badly. The faces of your

beloveds come in closer, others as

remote as through glass,

archetypes or clichés walking

around in bacterial skins under

alkaline skies. Your body

becomes as soft and transitory as

butter, succumbing to temperature

or stiffening for no reason but the

weather. Your bones get in the

way.  Of all your possessions,

your telephone is the most

important—after the garden, of

course, that you cannot own and

which may even possess you

because without daily effort it

disappears, the labor of someone

full of hope in a state of denial.

 
 

THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

© 2015 by William Ray