I am an admirer of bones
stalks wrapped in a mortal envelope
that carry the fruit and leaves
of the living spread and bloom.
When I die, I want my bones
to be sanded down to something
fundamental, the color of eggshell
or moon face, crushed to cinder meal
and fed to fish in a mountain lake.
I want my right forearm
to be tossed around at sea
until the gritty waves
carve a fine point on one end
so I can write messages
to you on the grainy floor
from my aquatic grave.
By Donelle Dreese
Donelle Dreese reads "Bone Calligraphy"
Donelle Dreese is the author of two poetry collections: A Wild Turn (Finishing Line Press), and Looking for a Sunday Afternoon (Pudding House Publications). Her poetry and fiction have appeared in publications such as Quiddity International, Hospital Drive, Appalachian Heritage, Runes, Gulf Stream Magazine, Journal of Microliterature, Gadfly Online, and ISLE . She is an Associate Professor of English at Northern Kentucky University.
Work for Monthly Verse is selected through our editorial process. New poems are selected from authors that submitted work for the last issue. Read more authors by subscribing to Fjords.