the bones

 

when she was little and the ladies worried over her not-yet-well-enough soul they poured oils and tossed bones chanted and recanted until the pale subsided and the ghosts floated empty-handed barren away   she is no longer little and the ladies keep silent now but she hears the bones clack clack clack against the walls tastes bitter root and anise in her teas sweeps rosemary from beneath her bed   he wakes restless most nights proud yet unaffected the visit to the mountain because she asked him to too many days too late the scene too breathtaking too awful to take   the ghosts wait on comfy chairs snacking on olives and wine a jocularity that rattles the windows   across town she wakes screaming the only word her mouth will make but the listeners feign ignorance and close their eyes returning to sleep   all this pales to the drip drip drip the bed of love now barren   and they sleep   side by side separate singular and saturated