deepundergroundpoetry.com

God Doesn't Take The Bones

Of�course�Lele�would�do�her�suicide�cleanly.
That�was�the�German�in�her�taking�over.
Not�the�Irish'�destruction;�Break�as�much
as�possible�and�get�blood�on�everything.
They'll�remember�that!

No,�she�took�a�tiny�army�of�little�pills
and�swallowed�them�as�she�walked�out
on�the�rainiest�day,�across�the�wow-
greenest�field�she'd�ever�seen.
She�took�a�nap,�smiling�as�she�fell�asleep,
waiting�for�God�to�do�that�god-thing.
Where�the�ugly�clouds�part�and�a�soft�golden�hand
lowers�from�a�white�cloud-door,
and�gently�scoops�her�up�by�her�waist.

Of�course�she�knew�better;
God�doesn't�take�the�bones.
But�lovely�Lele,�she�knew�the�rain
would�cleanse�most�of�the�mess.
And�just�a�small,�maybe�burlap�bag
from�her�own�house,�would
collect�her�voodoo�windchime�pieces.
Perhaps,�she�had�thought
as�she�closed�her�eyes,
someone�would�string�her�bones�together
and�hang�them�for�the�wind�to�anoint
in�the�next�calling�storm.
Sounding�like�dry�bamboo�reeds,
like�those�dollar�shoots�from�the�flea�market,
that�always�die from�neglect.

Laying�there,�as�the�rain�tapped�upon�her�eyelids
and�gray�sparks�washed�across�the�inside,
she�tried�to�feel�what�she�would�miss.
But�Nothing�doesn't�leave�flashes�like�Somethings.

Maybe�God�creates�life�with�threads�on�a�loom
and�someone�has�to�be�the�end�piece
of�the�off-color,�that's�rarely�used.

Maybe�Lele�never�married�because
there�were�no�good�threads�to�weave�with�hers.
So�she�took�some�scraps,�here�and�there
off�heaven's�floor,�to�blend�with�hers.
For�moments�of�binding�time.
To�be�a�little�stronger
during�those�little�whiles.

Lele�had�her�few�lovers,�I�was�one.
But�I�was�young�and�she�should�have
known�better.
Yet�accidents�are�still�Somethings.
But�she�probably�never�missed�me.

She�had�said�that�I�was�cute,
that�I�would�do,�as�she�fondled.
As�I�fumbled
with�our�have-knots.

But�she�is�dead�now
and�she�had�never�told�a�soul
about�our�summer.
When�it�had�rained�so�much
that�we�were�always�changing�clothes.
She�hurt�me�once,�said�she�felt
like�a�babysitter.
It�was�during�an�after,
as�she�tied�my�shoes.

She�died�during�another�rain.
God�didn't�take�her�bones.
Or�the�thin,�gold�necklace�that
she�had�chosen�to�wear,
with�the�small�ivory�elephant
-something�wild�on�a�chain.

She�had�told�me�that�I
was�her�elephant,
when�I�had�given�her�the�necklace.
When�I�was�sixteen�and�working
a�summer�painting�faces
on�porcelain�figurines.
(My�hands�were�thin
and�details�meant�everything�to�me).

I�had�given�her�the�chain�with�my�elephant,
leashed�and�tamed�just�for�her.
She�named�it�Soba,
as�she�told�me
that�she�was�allergic�to�gold.
I�wondered�if�she�had�any
reaction�at�all,�when�she
finally�wore�it,�to�her�slumber.

I�wondered�where�Soba�went,
once�they�bagged�Lele
in�a�generic�plastic�body�bag.
Probably�to�a�flea�market,
with�imitation�porcelain�goddesses
and�jade�creatures�that�do�not
really�resemble�any�known�dragon.

I�wonder�if�Lele�spends�her�heaven
gathering�thread.
But�threads�wither,�and�break�apart.
Not�like�gold.

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