Building Up The Bones: A Poem

I am ready to build my house, now
I have bones to to build my walls
Feathers to put a roof over my head
Stories to lay as my foundations.
My windows will be made of eyes
So that when I look out of my house, I will see souls
The fences around my house will be made with words I’ve wasted arguing
The doors, with keys
That do not belong to locks.

In the garden no flowers will grow
Instead I’ll plant unsent love letters,
Missing pages from unknown journals,
Unpublished first drafts culled from drawers.
Notes passed between schoolchildren will grow like weeds between the rows.
I’ll build a trellis of salt and dragon’s teeth
Where myths will snake like grapevines,
Wild and unpruned.
Lost and drunk on the fruits of their leaves,
I’ll wake in the morning lying in a fountain
Of ink.

Inside, treble clefs and concertos will paper the walls
I’ll build my stairs of boleros
My chairs of cellos
My floors of jazz and waltzes.
The lights will flicker constantly
Powered by lovers’ quarrels
Against a scratch of vinyl
Extinguished as they fall into bed
And the saxophone breathes its last.

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Image: Cornelia Konrads installation Passage. Photo credit to the artist.