April 10, 2022

The Bone Forest by Gail Little

I will make a forest of bones, she said,
With whiteness of birch bark and marrow sap.
All will rise and be washed clean by water.
No death can claim me,
Except the quiet death of thoughtless things.
I will fall and rise up with the bones.
The drunken skeleton ferments and dances,
Dances until it breaks apart.
Bones shatter and scatter like seeds.
The old forest grows again.
Fruit on bone trees is dark red,
The bone forest bears pomegranate-kin.
The taste keeps the key of paradise
For all those who pass through death
To find the bone forest
Where the world begins again.

Gail Little loves studying languages both modern and ancient, gardening, and playing pranks on her husband. She previously published speculative fiction and poetry under the name Abigail Ashing. 

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