Sarah Ansani
Something has Happened to Me
and there are paths in fields to prove it.
Bent blades of grass,
monitored hills,
cracked cords of wood from trees
that ward me away with ivy.
I envy the movement
of their shadows.
The outstanding height of their leaves,
flatter than hands, they cannot even
handle the weight of veins or bone.
And when I climb alone it is the touching
of hands that I miss. The long glances
at faces, the listening of words
long after spoken. But the movements of lips
are broken against these hills.
In these fields, I have scavenged
small, articulate bones
that I wish were mine or yours.
How refined they are, picked clean,
but stained with clay. And beneath them,
I suspect some flesh must stir,
a breath be taken, blood to seep.
An eye, like a round brown stone
to look up at me.
What looks like bones for a hand
are bones for a wing.
I spread my fingers upon them,
flesh to bone,
and breathe.
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