A Garden’s Bones

Poem by Dr. Stephanie Han

Bones.
Bones shoot from the earth—
a three-pronged fork.
Hard and pale white stumps—
jetties on green sea.
Bones;
a sturdy skeleton
buried in tufts of winter grass
hacked and sawed
by the woman upstairs—
one less to water, feed or tend
a Death
a Blessing.
A curious sculpture these bones
kicked by a tiny boy
ringed by dirt and dried feces
for the gods to chew
for the winds to gnaw
a brittle snap
a slow decay.
Bones are phantoms
spit from the glory
of summer’s bush.
At night my son cries:
shadows, ghosts.
Does he mean these bones?
Weeks pass
nubs give way
to stems and curved leaves.
Feel the baby’s temple,
the barely-hard skull
damp with the terror of light.

Dr. Stephanie Han

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