Exhumation/Shelly Griska



I don't want to see the bones,
armature of an instance
that dared voice the ineffable
binding and separating eyes
countless and disparate as
pebbles coalescing into beach.

Leave him an apparition dissolving
into constellations of particulars,
motley kinships of castaway treasures,
garbage christ with hands mangled
by the roots of olivine prophecy,
one eye a doll, the other an urn,
and lips of the mad fisherwoman
who saw herself netted
in strangers' stories.

Shimmering cloaks of words
like crystal tambourines shatter
the bridge from atom to galaxy,
conjure fragmented mirages
hinting mute paradox,
all else chaff for the fire
at the end of each
lonely universe.

No bones to be found, nor flesh,
no face but a bricolage that
dreamt itself a man now lost,
reassembled by stranger friends
who feel his whole in fragments,
closer than their own gaudi masks.

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