Lovely Bones

White, bone white,
Dry, bone dry,
Here they lie
Amidst the mold
Autumn’s ruby red and gold
All gone by.

Gather them then,
Collect them all
Make of them a pile
A bundle pitiful and small
A girl child’s tibia and femur
A woman’s pelvic saddle
Skull entwined with
Hanks of yet red-gold hair still.

What husband left her there,
Or lover, brother, friend – murderer?
Why should she lie so cold
Upon her bed of old old
Maple tree appendages, mingled
With the sharp needles of pines
Dun dull and brindled brown.

So I will lay my head upon
An empty breast, sprung
Casket of the heart,
Pure enameled cage of hopes
Love now abandoned
Upon a wind of fall
Drifting like descending leaves
Dry and whispering.

I will wonder what children
Might have been
What tanglings amid the
Warm drifts among the trees
Would tint white cheeks
And cause dark eyes
To smolder, lips bruised with
Kisses fierce or nibbles tender.

Oh, yes, and I might dream
Why bones must lie here
Unloved, ungathered as dreams
Of love in autumn
Only, only, for a time and times.
Love will one day
Gather these and knit them
As in their mother’s
Womb first they were knitted
Down below in
Deep to depths unknown unknowable.

Ad majorem Dei gloriam,

Wendell Geary Jr.
Fall, 2001