Womb Bones and Ancient Fences
I never feel like a bone.
My edges are porous, yes, but they keep
the water inside,
like a mountain keeps its lake,
thin lines snaking odd silhouettes of cartilage,
or perhaps the skin that cups the soft bits in the cheek.
Hollow whole outlines rise and the inside depresses
as one large land mass,
towards the earth's core,
ever bitten crust.
Bones can't be woven, like hurdling branches
three months after they're cut
(you must give them time to dry out),
and that's how my lines are-
an ancient craft once used for making fences,
not much more than an old man's hobby,
pull me over and around
and under each edge post,
to loop back,
over and under
(but don't wait too long; I can't be too dry
These lines are then pressed upon themselves,
like that fencing
to scoop out a chance for air.
Bone would never be able to do that-
it becomes brittle much sooner
after its cut, and it's never soft enough to weave,
except maybe in the womb?
Janna Grace lives in a half-glass barn and her work has appeared in The Bitchin' Kitsch, Plastik Magazine, and Red Eft Review, among others. She has pieces forthcoming in Eunoia and Alpha Female Society and she teaches writing at Rutgers University. Her debut novel will be published through Quill Press in 2019.