The bones had to set when we broke them—
we set them in ash after each burn,
beside skeletons of former homes, still smoking.
We needed new cells to grow. Hold still, they said,
teaching how to manage the waiting period.
They meant faith—but without the work
it looked half-dead in our mirrors. We listened
for wolves. We saved their prints in boxes
for someday—for sorting, for display. But what
do you name the waters rising high enough to jump
to the next roof, hoping that one holds? Other questions
scratched outside us. Siri, what do you know of shelter?
It was something to do; knowing you had no service
didn’t stop the need to speak. We reached ready
for the next ledge, and she might have said, You can wait
until dark. Siri, we might have answered—I believe,
to heal our unbeliefs. The ghosts before us pointed next
and up ahead. We had begged to see it. But one wing,
caught in the updraft, suspended—still looking back—
It was the wreck we marched from. It looked away.
We looked away. It was possible, then, to keep wishing—
merrily down a lane to the land of the dead.
Tracing its thread against honey-slick tongues, we offered
first milk. Some kept their breasts bound for harvest moon.
And when it came, there would be blood, and money—
enough to say: we’ll be okay another year
until time
comes to pull it back again— the sun
of our once
and future sons.
