she whispers to her
skin at night
as days spent baking
end,
sheds into a quiet
sun,
drops words
against the smallest bones
that tremble,
unseen by sound-
of how a father's death
was simpler than his dying,
that this is perhaps how male
must always leave,
as an ancient nail, pressed against
her cross,
against her hands held still
where metaphors found in old
wood, splay palms open
unable to hold;
where bones lash
together
to push him back
while she
with unnamed salt,
sees that empty soil
has a residue
so she circles
in descent,
to drink his blood
and eat his flesh
again
while fresh loaves rise,
pink and small
and a slow shovel buries
each rib
beyond the bruises
and the ash,
beyond pale
ghosts
of him and him,
to gather weight
when mirrors blink
like those she shuns
on bad-skin days
when all is flat
and empty
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Love, Lane
This is absolutely brilliant poetry. There is nothing I can say that has not aready been said 
