The bones must go,
—–the man said.
they must be moved,
—–he stated firmly.
it’s the law.
we watched my grandmother’s face
—–wrapped in wisps of gray hair
—– hanging like shadowy fog
—–in the deep furrow of each wrinkle
—–cut through the clay of her cheeks
—– by time’s relentless plow
—– a story could be witnessed
—– and in those bones
—– was the tale of her great love
—– with the man for whom she waited
—– her blood singing with fear
—– as he half-rotted in muddy trenches in France
—– his only comfort a tiny New Testament
—– in which she had printed a proclamation
—– of her girlish admiration
when it came home in his pocket
—– tattered and dirty
—– she held it close
—– clutched it in her hand
—– when the preacher sang out the vows
—– by the creek below the hill
—– where they would live for half a century
—– strain the land to sustain them
—– bring forth children
—– and lose some of them
and where now the power company
—– posed as the great benefactor
—– waits to flood the slender valley
—– to spin giant wheels
—– from which sparks will magically
—– leap from wire to wire
—– a gift to the world below
—– my grandmother’s tiny universe
she looked away from the man
—– toward the single great oak
—– beneath which tiny stones
—– marked the lives that were hers
—–lost
—– but still hers
—– still living
—– still breathing each night
—– when she lays down alone
—– in that old iron bed
—– to say her evening prayers
—– and thank her god
—– for all the blessings
—– he has bestowed upon her
and many of those blessings
—– huddle beneath the dark dirt
—– under that tree
—– quiet there
—– yet restless in her mind
—– ghosts that can’t be seen
—– but felt
—– as they linger close to her
—– look after her
—– alone in the old house
—– waiting to join them
you can’t take those bones away
—– she said finally, quietly
—– so that we strained to hear
if you want to move those bones
—– you have to move this whole hill
—– uproot that brave old tree
—– struck by lightning a dozen times
—– take along the stars from that patch of the sky
—– and that spot where the sunshine
—– fights through the shade just once each day
—– touches each stone
—– warms them for a moment
—– my kiss
—– that’s what I call it,
—– my kiss
—– and don’t forget the moon
—– it has to go along too
those bones are not just bones:
—– they are turned to the stone
—– under that hill
—– and woven into the roots of the grass
—–and running in the cold water of that creek
—– they march with the ants
—– fly with the old black crows
—– slither with that fat moccasin in the cane
—– slouch in the shadows with the coons
—– and…
she faltered
…and they beat in the blood
—– in this tired old heart
—– she said at last
—– a hand crumpled like brown paper
—– touching her wizened chest
—– a jagged finger
—– tapping it once, twice, three times
she stood up, hurting and slow
—– rocking to get her balance
—– you can take the bones
—– she told the man
—– but you can’t take the bones
and she ached into the house
—– with a last look
—– down the hill
—– to that place of spirit
—– where her bones
—– were already lovingly held close
—– worshipped pure and strong
—– bleached clean
—–
More by Gary Carter
