Today's poem is by Marcela Sulak

Flesh of My Flesh, Bone of My Bone


A bone stretched to its full length, in its private
burial cave, or a bone oblivious oflight,

oflust and of teeth? A bone over which
bitches have fought. It's picked clean on a polished

floor. A bone turning over its dreaming
soil? A bone clicking under floorboards, knocking

on closet doors. A bone tied senseless
to other bones. When she pulls certain strings

it will raise him. And when they grow old
they will line up the bones, matching black dots,

like saturated eyes that give nothing away?
They will roll the bones, just when they

feel most secure. Later Venetian Carnivals will conceive
dominoes, and the winter habits of French priests

(white outside, black within) will bestow the moniker.
But Queen Jezebel would have never

pronounced the word dominus, except in jest.
And dice (singular, die) can come to rest

in six different attitudes, like a woman,
it means something played, something given.

Jezebel: most maligned applier of eyeliner?
Most hated defier of fate, deifiers

of history have ever known. She was to me
a sulky husband's spine, last seen

working her fingers to the bone. Delicate
anklebones, kohl-blackened eyes in a white face?

He keeps calling her—his little deuce—through the growing
pains of all the comely adolescent bones.

Copyright © 2015 Marcela Sulak All rights reserved
from Decency
Black Lawrence Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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