Thursday, June 30, 2016

#29 Needles of Bone by Emma McKervey

Needles of Bone

She wonders if this is productive enough
when what she wanted was nothing
except maybe to learn how the men shoot
snot from one nostril, pinning the other shut.
It seemed unfair when all she had was her hem.
In the damp corner of a field, seeking warmth
from the heaped hay she found the bones of a bird,
more substantial than if it had been the stripped bones
of a stolen fledgling the magpies had taken 
to ease the dark hunger in themselves.
The larger bones would make a fine needle
she could not help but think, but as she worked
the gentle corpse it was not needles or pins she made,
but a chain, each eye she pierced she found herself sliding
the next bone through, it formed a line to cut across the silage.
She left it there when she rose, intending to return home.


  1. Oh, Emma!! Too good. This makes me think of Emily Dickinson's powerful image "zero at the bone.." This productivity of our all consuming hunger as poets...


Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.