Secret Skeletons

First published in The Tundish Review, Issue Four, 2017

A twisted branch upon the beach

Eaten smooth, and polished

As if the world gave up

The secret of its skeleton,

Stiff and white.

-T.S. Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night

Secret skeletons loiter, waiting in the jaws of

open-mouthed doorways and yawning alleyways

speaking untruths, sexsongs, gutlies and grinning.

The priests are wrong if they call this sinning.

Secret skeletons sigh, leaning against brickwork

with roses for retinas, dilating, newborn blooming.

All over this city, we are lingering, looming.

Bones curl and splinter in gutters swimming.

The priests are wrong if they call this sinning.

Her secret skeleton is shy, but badly wants to play.

With midnight marrowed bones that long to taste

tomorrow’s break of day, so let her find her way.

Ease her into it with soft afternoons slimming.

Drinking twilight, treacle over our tongues.

The priests are wrong if they call this sinning.

We have done no wrong here, stained concrete,

taste-tested skin, explored other options than him,

chewed bruised fruit, kissed into ether, all-grinning.

By god, they are wrong when they call this sinning.