by Anne Marie Macari
I know what it’s like to dig
but not find the bone
you are looking for. Buried
deep and tight as a knuckle
beneath the garbage
and rubble. If the tongue
had a bone, or if breasts
had artifacts buried
inside, beyond the milk
and ducts. If the eye had
the bone of sight locked
in its black interior,
old bone secretly given.
I step down onto the ancient
street of brick houses,
so many bricks they tint
the dark air. In the dead
city sleeping ash stirs
its powdery afterlife—
I have reached deep
I have turned my eyes away
so what I look for might find me,
take shape in my hand,
earth slashed down
to the bone, fingers scooping
black dirt, my whole arm
reaching inside.
