Good Bones

Aug 14 2012

It’s been neglected, he said,

but the old house

has good bones.

Craftsmanship, like pedigree

is bred in the bone.

Bone deep.

If we hauled around our shells,

surrounded ourselves

in exoskeleton. 

Were soft-bodied creatures

turned inside-out  —

gastropod, cephalopod

turtle, plodding along   —

there’d be nothing concealed.

The dim centre

flung open,

all introspection exposed.

Load strengthens

and age brittles.

And rich marrow thins,

as they ache, and flinch

to the touch.

While an old house

can be re-built

from the ground up

flesh grows weary,

and in the end

only bones are left.

At last, can be read,

like the rings of a tree

fossilized teeth.

The break, the mend,

the year of hunger.

But when the house burned

everything went.

Just scorched brick

smoking rubble,

rivulets of ash

running out.