Gibson Fay-Leblanc, 2007 BLR Poetry Prize Winner
Woke gnawing its remains. Air
had the brackish tinge of depths I had
all night been swimming in. No bird song
rose from the vine-covered fence
that my room looks out on—not even
the pigeons’ manic calls. I talked
myself down from the bed, a loft,
took paper in trade for the splintered
bone—whether human or animal
I don’t know. I’d picked it clean though,
chewed the joint, cracked one end,
sucked all the marrow. Tell me,
Mind, why you ravaged this limb-part—
tell me what its owner told you in the dark.
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