Bone by Dawn Lundy Martin

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exchange | Luther Hughes


They say recovering, lips suffering the glass. And they say,
                dig, dig, rise from tough root.
To know is to know why, or was. Was meant? Was granted.
                Was ungrateful. Holes that stick,
that permeate holes. Sufficient consequence. Working the
                loom. Yards of it. Sprawling, choking.

Toward him. When sleep comes, it comes bare. Barely.
                To balance there. It has been twenty years.
“What do you think about when you think about him?” Only,

                toward him. Brush of him. Breath brush. Rum.
It was my first drink. Hairless arms and legs. Breath
                of drink. Breath. Barely breast.

Rehearsal. The economy of fawn. “What do you play when
                you replay?” Wet slabs of heat. What it is to
be cornered. Teeth against knees. Sufficient unmaking.
                It’s an old joke: don’t take candy from
strangers. Stranglers. A category of depthness. Endless
                layering. First, second, third . . . like that.

The other side of once. Beckoning. Called if. Hating if only.


dawn lundy martin
Dawn Lundy Martin

Originally published in A Gathering of Matter/A Matter of Gathering

See all the pieces from 29 Days of Beautiful here.


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