Moses carried the bones of Joseph
out of Egypt to place them
with the ancestors.
We repeat his story each year, point
to the platter with the shank bone
hewn like the one used to paint blood
above the doorways. I carry the bones
of everyone I have loved, even a little,
and of every forebear atop my head.
Each day the mound grows larger,
knocking this way and that. No basket can
contain such artifacts. Femurs and fibulae
arrange themselves precariously.
Tiny ear bones hide inside mandibles
or recline on an upturned pelvis.
Jawbones suggest strength, but so many
empty skulls, useless eye sockets,
I cannot tell which bone belonged to whom.
Carpals and vertebrae perch at wild angles
and scratch the broad belly of the sky.
I do not collapse under the weight. Rather I
listen to the rhythmic click of clavicles
and ribs knitting their ancient tunes,
telegraphing stories that end then begin
again. Releasing strands of truth
they would not share in life. Each night,
before sleep, I lift the enormous pile
from above my head, place it gently
on the empty side of my bed.
Jessica de Koninck is author of the collection Cutting Room (Terrapin) and the chapbook Repairs (Finishing Line). She is a winner of the 2023 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Contest. Her poems have been featured in Writer’s Almanac and on Verse Daily.
Photo by Brett Wharton on Unsplash
