I dreamt last night.
It answered my question
about whether the dead dream.
Must mean dreams come from bones
not brains, bones as scaffolding
for psych and soul with the DNA of generations
carried deep within
bones' marrow.
But about that dream,
some ancestral reverberation
straight from the marrow,
grandfathers galloping through,
priests stealing things from children,
a girl rising up to accuse the priest,
she took things back too, wanted to reclaim
her grandfather's treasures,
hand-carved.
That's what you can do with bones:
stand, yell, take, hold, dream.
Inspired by Grace at dVerse Poets Pub who wrote about The Book of the Dead Man by Marvin Bell and asked us for a poem written by one dead. The link has expired but here it is posted for Mama Zen with Words Count in the Garden who wrote of the circus and requested 90 words or less about which performer you are. This is skeleton man, or dead man walking.
