Poetry Magazine, John Sokol, February 2002

Poetry Magazine

John Sokol

USA

Deer Bones

We found them in the meadow
near our favorite pond--
late March, Spring thaw--
anatomy lesson in the gray grass,
glaze of gristle at the joints,
miracle of vertebrae,
and a dusting of snow on the few snags of fur.

Yes, dear, you saw them first,
and by all rights, they belong to you.
But don't worry. I keep them safe.
I lay them out and piece them together.
I draw them often: mostly by candlelight,
which deepens the shadows.
I touch them, again and again,
and bleach the high curves with light,
as my hand moves over the page,
in soft, searching strokes.

-- originally appeared in Conspire, Vol. V, Issue XVII

Hieroglyphic

-- for Libby Jacobs

Thanks for the book! Yes,
like you said -- halfway down
on the table of contents --
a bug: squashed flat as a map of Kansas.
Outrageous typo; botched imprint
pulled from the litho stone of a fly
(grease-stick barbs
at the joints of splayed legs;
anthracite iridescence
in the crush of striated wings).
Just a bug -- solarized-in-a-swat
on the table of a page;
viscera of corpse: afterthought in a thought balloon;
imprimatur for the quick
and perfect death; a life remembered
by a drawing drawn from the life itself.
Oh, that we all should be so lucky.

-- originally appeared in Potpourri, Vol. 8, # 1, '96