Well, yesterday was very nice: the Fellow and I had brunch with my brother, then went up to the Renaissance festival at the Cloisters, and finally had a Chinese barbecue for dinner. (I got a mooncake with a candle stuck in it: the advantages of the Mid-Autumn festival being on my birthday this year!) Yet another year of the twenties feels pretty much the same as the last one; I suspect that’s how it will continue to go.
This is for Donna‘s prompt, although I did not follow the letter of it this time: the phrase “words support like bone” turned into some mythology-inspired language-metaphor nonsense thing. But, here it is. I think it’s nice, even if it’s a flight of whimsy without much point.
Come down to the beach and find the flints of words
to build up bones for me. Take the ground serifs and
punctuation into your hands and make a sandcastle
around a shadow of me. Pour out mouthfuls of marrow,
which is practiced and repeated, which is conjugated,
tensed and released in me. Speak in an undeniable
language, mystifying and absolute, a parapet of beach
born sound, all of it for me. Invent a shell-mosaic name
that sings of me. Balance all my weight on two long
femurs of consonant and vowel, knead semantics into
ribs to lace the lungs in me. Open the sideways crab
into articulation for me. Play the marimba of my wings
with the wind hollowing through it, fill my gills with tall
tales, unravel the alphabet so it can become the rings
around the sea-blue irises of me. Write your dreams,
very small, in me. Then we’ll discuss what comes next.