Bay Leaf Heir

My ribs are like a cluster of twigs

Snapped and fraying at the ends from the rain.

They hold a hatching egg at the center without a shell

A salivating blood-vial, unearthly even.

I think my fingers brush the edge of its tender face

Press the fear from its little lungs

Flick the crimson drops that grasp my skin

Onto the faces that look my way.

Why did you have to gaze into my eyes?

Why did you bear forth the strings of your soul

Like stories bound in a circle and caroused

From their tumult and frivolity?

Darling, the poor don’t see the ladder you climb.

Some of us don’t understand that when you throw

A brick, it hits somebody, somewhere, and bleeds

Even if you don’t smell it, feel it on your fingertips

Like her departing touch on my arm. See this

Sobriety. See my behavior and careful etiquette

Loosening my tie and untucking my shirt, I did not

See you, and I am sorry. I am indeed ashamed.

And yet I sleep while I drive and my feet and hands

Do the labor of my brain, so instead I can replay

The last word, the last time I looked upon your face

And wonder to myself if ever I shall see it again.

It would be a shame to have lost another before

I ever knew she was so near. Regret. It’s a heavy

Word. It’s a taunting syllable and another in the dirt

Roots and all upturned and cast back down

Like a mortuary stampede. Why is it touch that

Mocks my paucity of strength? Why not taste or

Scent, or even my eyes or my ears, why should this

Tactile trial so beguile me with every handshake

Every meeting of your eyes and mine and the flecks

Of blood I left on your face, unnoticed, but bright

In the light that is your stubbornness? Let me be

I beg of thee. Kiss me not with mouth or glance

Give me neither drink nor provender, but rather

A swift kick in the side, break the nest around my

Bleeding heart and let it fall to a poorly lit floor

To be returned to the dust from which it never

Should have come, to be interred without a word

I beg of thee. And yet you look at me, you

Stand near and keep your history engaged with

My gurgling throat, like a queen amongst the

Rabble of us lethargists and madmen, her hand

Outstretched in cautious contemplation, like a

Child, I suppose. Like a traveler in a new and

Different land. I’m not so pleasant though.

From the earth below your feet, you snatched

The shell-less egg before its fate fulfilled and

Gently offered it to me, with a tiny smile and

A world beyond my wounded grasp.

My ribs are like a cluster of twigs

Snapped and burnt and bundled back

Into a crude imitation of yours.

But your Before implores me take

A moment, just a thought, to place it back

Inside my pack until my lack of faculties

Could blaze within these youthful bones

And turn this leaden box to one of gold.