Bone Dance

sanchopanzalit
Oct 14
1 min read

B.R. Strahan

We gnaw the bone

of memory, bird shadows

skimming stone.

Red afterbirth, splinters

in the flesh of dawn,

blood clouds flying.

The flensing knife

peels us down, white

sheets in a desert wind.

The loose skin flaps,

our flagging days

like torn banners.

Slowly we are gnawed

to bone, memory

turned to bird shadows.

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