Mudlark No. 47 (2012)

Bone Salad

Bleached gateways hanging beyond a whiteness into the sac
of the recessive, no-wind the only wind to speak of, a chant
of hair, out lowing, brokered by this plug of sun gore, I eats 
air, you eats air, we all eats us some air. Twilight in the ink 

cuffs of grilled sat-down, I cain’t come home, cain’t nohow, 
twilight in the heat sink, a null gaping, and the tracts of old 
boneshines, tomorrow is Jack on Fire.  What we serves we
serves in style. Hot plates a-stagger. You know the secret

when they milk you the secret, guessing is a sucker’s chock, 
each step another puzzle, flanked by what must be children, 
but seem different somehow, like scissors in someone else’s 
hands, ashface is, as ashface is, leached salts slow the drone. 

In the root cellar of the canyons wolf spiders bitch amongst
themselves, green eyes shining, gearing up for another night 
in the scrub, the scouring of the blanched grasses and dried 
clouds quarter-folded into the cliffs, come morning it’s back

to flash fry, come morning, the pale slog of the zero and its 
wildering flak into fullness. The kettling, and the brooming 
in of the bone salad from the steeper cool of the gone below,
we done charred the tie rods, what’s left is all you’ll own to.

Jeffrey Little | The House of the Cross-Eyed Curve
Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)