Knitbone

by Linda Parsons Marion



Since I stumbled on the bricks last Christmas,
dragging the new composter past prickly canes
and seedheads, since the jigsawed border nearly
punctured my innards, I’ve listed like a warship at port,
hugging my pride, tender diaphragm and liver. How
I yearned for the barrel’s turning, reek of peel and pulp,
dross spun to storied gold—not the nightlong ache
and moan, my heart’s careless door cracked open.
Though the x-ray fogged uncertain, month by month
I felt blood pool, fracture dovetail, as all wrongs imagined
and true ease back in time. Again December, I breathe
for all the years shattered, deep in, deep out, salve comfrey
on memory’s contusions,  those unsettled footpaths
I’ve taken in shadow, falling still, falling.  



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