November 1: These Bones

This book sits in a hand stitched bone nest, made with what I believe are cat fish bones, which my mother sent to me. She collected them from the beach near her home in northern Florida, after a collector's dream storm. She had asked what I wanted for Christmas one holiday season - I replied, "Bones". Both nature and she obliged abundantly, when boxes of bones, from fish to a pelican, wrapped in holiday flare.

The book within it's nest is hand painted with ink washes on rice paper; the words of my poem were then stamped on the pages, and sewn together.

These bones

once smothered

beneath the layers

of fat, flesh, muscle

encased and aching

to separate and free

to flee,

to rattle click

to dry, harden, bleach

warming in the sun

having been picked clean

by passers by

then tossed, kicked

left to lie

upon the sand

between the rocks

washed clean

by salty waves.