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| Inches from the sterile charnel heap lodged
in crowded suitcase tombs beneath my bed, I half-slept beside you. Inches from your heart. Time beat a worried path through bone, Yet sometimes, in your arms, I felt almost loved. By day the waxen femur in my hand left yellow stains - death reduced to pollen in my palm. I studied grains and lines, breathed warm on them as if life�s echo might recall a memory, a moment when another�s hand touched thigh. With sorrow�s heavy-headed resting on soft ribs I wondered how alike were bones and blood, hollow vessels drifting in slow dreaming marrow, and I, sad daughter, mourning relics of a time when it was your turn to feel almost loved. |
| *image: Jean-Paul Avisse |