Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts
Fiction   /   Nonfiction   /   Poetry


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.