Beyond Bare Bone

By Lucinda Sands

I know that place in you
the splintered spirit
fractured and aloof,
the abandoned arteries
clogged with disappointment,
the pallid heart
weak and dissatisfied,
perhaps a misguided womb
left swollen yet empty.
I know that place in you
the precipice of thought
too slick to realize,
the gasping for air too thin,
the bitterness of bile
surging from the belly
and blood’s cold lessons
tainted with the past.
I know that place in you
where too much rests
behind hardened scars
behind fresh abrasions,
behind saturated memory
refusing to dry,
and nothing dies
but all passes on and on.
I know that place
behind the panic,
that seeps from midnight
and calls, and calls, and calls
into vacant spaces
and dares you one more time
to look beyond bare bone.