#16, #17, #18

Sorry again for the lateness. I've been laid up with some horrid minor illness, and also I've been at my father's house over the weekend, the land which suddenly is without a usable computer.... Excuses, excuses. But I really did write these when I should have. PS> i hope you know that i know these are terrible and unpolished.

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#16

We the people/ are abominations/ beyond masking. We are/ animals without nature,/only the leafy residue/ of the native things--/the birds and mammals,/ the reptiles and bacteria, all living/ things which act with/ a reasoning beyond our ken.//

We are the unatural one,/ the freaks--not the exquisite/ corpse that we see as/ "our" world to use and destroy./ The native things are are kind--/letting us play as we will,/ like mothers tolerant of small children./ But the earth is unforgiving; she will/abandon our malformed sensibilities/ with a molten spray of "good riddance."/ The natie will not blame us,/ though they be deserted by Mother, too.//

(I know, I know.)

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#17

My collarbones are blooming/ out of this garment of flesh./ They look like wings looming/ up under my scared and detatched face.//

OR

Sonnet about Bones:

Can you believe it, that these bones/ belong to me? Under my skin,/ they settles, cozy in this home/ that they have made for themselves. Thin/ layers of flesh create a wing/ on each side of my heart. My eyes/ grow wide at the flutter and fling/ of my bones reaching for the skies./ Now they want to shed this garment./ I cling to them bones with my hand,/ too small, and they rip the parchment./ I want them to stop now, to land./ But the long bones, they are lifting./ They leave me and won't stop lifting.//

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#18

When I am a bird,

I will be a red bird

with bones that you can put

flowers and feathers in to.//

I will be the kind of bird

who builds nests for a living,

for birds who work too much.//

I will be the kind of bird

who children draw with crayons

the exact color of my wings.//

When I fly I will keep my

eyes shut until I remember

that I am a bird and don't

need to be afraid of heights.//

When I fly I will soar bouncingly

the way I do in dreams, only

nothing will be chasing me.

Least of all gorillas. //

When I am a dead bird,

I will make my bones

into instruments for small boys,

and I will put my red feathers

in little girls' hair. The children

will find my nests and make

good use of them. //