the zero of the bone
stood on the edge of the bridge
and wondered what it would be like to fall.
dried the dishes her children washed carefully
and couldn't remember when she imagined
this could be her all.
if her name was promise or curse.
Edward wanted to believe
all his sorrow had worth.
Susan didn't talk to anyone.
She silently chased the pills
with vodka she'd seen
advertising the promise of better things.
has nothing at all.
The body born contains
unwritten pages bound by soft bone.
There are no stories written on the skin.
No memory to tangle the hands.
Even the brain is unprotected,
wrapped in soft envelope,
padded with room to grow.
Nothing is finished when we begin.
No direction is written.
We are soft,
full of possibility.
Having done nothing to make ourselves good.
Having done nothing that can be considered wrong.
We are at the beginning,
the zero of the bone.
The body born contains nothing,
everything it comes to know
as it goes.
Rising flying raising smooth planes of ceramic
like stars like hope reflecting a sky
that once revealed a map of the world
and now presses down,
returning us to the ground.
The starting point.
Only instead of nothing,
and soft padding,
we are scarred memory.
Going left then right
then back to the middle,
only to discover that for all the time that has passed,
few have dared to ask,
and fewer have chosen to listen,
to the answer of the meaning to it all.
The greater the distance we travel
the harder it is to remember
how we began.
Left then right then back to the middle,
few have dared to ask
and even fewer have chosen to listen.
through a window from a chair
he will never leave again.
Betty spun in circles
Cassandra chose for once
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