I need them to see my bones
in glass jars,
bone-on-glass-sounds as they rattle me
their fingerprints left to these vessels
for my bones to gaze to
ghostly rippled beings
see-through in the windows
and a chance shaman
(my bones yearn for)
he splits into my marrow
tastes me on mystic tongue
and paints me on his face
to bring fear into the huts
and magic around the village fire
my red liquid, my flesh
spews from his mouth
giving meat to my bones
before their eyes
I coalesce, borne frenzied
to shred myself, to claw it off
with hard, wet phalanges
because I need them to see my bones
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem