My new skeleton grows,
its cells fuse to me,
cleave me into a bridge
to a moment when all
that is mechanical will be
traced to this moment.
When all that is, will be,
heaven unknown, and hell
someone else’s problem.
The punishment continues;
the spirit lives. I am
so easily turned;
I grow into my skin.
Amen.
So little to believe in.
Seems everything we are given
falls away.
Seems everyone we love
can be taken away.
So many things to remind me—
we are born of clay,
easy to crumble,
fragile once fired,
not really clear what we are made for,
so little to show from long ago,
yet each day brings us closer
to the divinity at hand.
I open mine and see
nestled in a wound,
a nail made of iron.
I know this
is something I can hold onto.
This will last.
Bless this age of iron.
We who are to be forged,
bless and remember
the crucible of this open hand.
Peterborough Poets 