Ribs - Danielle Boodoo-Fortuné

This is not a poem about

the sound of my voice.

This is a poem about ribs,

and about how hard it can be

to hold a body together.

This is a poem about your last life,

where you lived among

the hard white trees, where

the man with smoke on his hands

held you,

as though

there would be no lives

but this.

Remember this: the night

will not leave you.

There is nothing here

to outlive.

Each time you wipe the earth

from your wet heart,

you find this poem

happening on your tongue,

hot, gritty and new.

For it is hard to keep poems

from claiming your bones,

especially when you are prone

to reckless memory.

It is hard to keep poems

from curling along your spine

and blooming, especially

when there is nothing to be had

beyond your window but

bricks and bright noise.

So gather your lives

and keep them here:

against your left lung.

For you see, this is a poem

about longing. It is not about

the sound of my voice at all.

This is a poem

About ribs. 

---

Danielle Boodoo-Fortuné (born 1986) Trinidad

Source: Moko Issue 1