Bone Smoke

I didn't grow up playing Pulitzer pretend,

in necklaces dripping with silver spoons,

and mirrors that always demanded "just so",

echoing fields of beige

befriended by milk toast walls.

I grew up sitting at mahogany tables where bread

and secrets were both broken,

smeared with honey butter, and swallowed by all

with stomachs grateful for the sharing.

I was taught that when life hands you lemons

you make martinis, twisting the bitter rind

to celebrate new paths to forge,

that when your heart goes unheard,

it's just the wrong ears were granted

the privilege of enunciated vulnerability.

They keep dousing all the bridges in kerosene

and blaming me for lighting a match,

but I grew up sweeping the bones from my closet,

assembling them stripped clean and bare

among the viridescent morning grass,

letting them smoke their remorseful cigarettes,

flick the embered ash into the dirt,

snuff it out with their calcaneus,

knowing the flames of cherries cannot take root

where the fields have been sufficiently watered.

And if it does burn,

I'll dance with them in the flames,

clutching carpals,

and even the smoke will whisper my name.