at first

I carried them

back to her

that pile

of old white bones

I found

in the pocket

of a river’s meander

high in a dry

floodwater bend

a shoal of

ten thousand river stones

the marbling shade

of elder casuarinas

knots

of roots

& smaller stones

eddies of earth

patched by

grass
having stumbled

upon

a farmer’s Boeotian

slaughterhouse

set back

from the river’s

cascade

quarrel & din

a silent

place for a bullet

the infirm

& broken

cows

led down

from

the paddock above

shot then &

their

scattered white bones

sculpted

by the high

sun

moving through

bleached

horns & the dark eyes

of their

forebears
I had only

my own eyes

to see

small zones

here & there

old bones

where bodies

drop

over time

&

then

down a bit

a rust brown

hide

taut over hollow ribs

stuck out

jaw open
forgive them

sacred cows

white milk

blood

& hard-baked

shit

the hide arched

over bone

into

a fly-blown

temple
who

would forgive me

though

when I

looked around

wandered yonder

& found

a remote pile

of bones

away

by a tangled pomegranate

scattered

dry

old white bones

the

skull first

resting

forward of the rest

two

clean bullet holes

resonate

with a

deathly cool

refrain

in the solid

resting

brow

& in

the skull’s wake

a wreck

of vertebrae & ribs

their empty

cacophony
who

would forgive me

if I

took them

with me

all the way home

& out into

the world’s

wide

tomb
my fingers

ran

along the smooth

dead

bone

& in a crack

I saw your

break

all the darkness

held inside

& so

variously figured

I should

indeed

take the bones

back

as the cracked

darkness

shared

might resonate

between us
so then

I first held the skull

up

brushed off

leaf muck

put it

aside

& over

time

picked

over

the dead

made a small

fine pile

of the best bones

& then

held

the deceased’s

naked clatter

in an

armful

picked

up the skull

with my

remaining

hand

& walked

back down river
I held

my cache of white

like a baby

by the

welling, turning

water

took a narrow

path

over rock

by the rapids

where the

river spilled

the story

witnessed

all the dead

danced &

cried

in the cataract

of death

reflected

in the transparent

glissade

of water

then I rested

at a wire

fence

pushed all the bones

beneath

& crossed a wide grass

paddock

tall

seed-heads

licking the bones

as I passed

down by another

pomegranate

thicket

& then by the river

again

down

a dark tunnel

of trees

beside

deep black water

blue sky

mirrored

dead leaves sailing

through

a gallery

of overhanging she-oaks

& gums

maiden-hair ferns

the water’s

hushed

movement
I came up

from

the river

out from the tree

shadows

holding the baby

load of bones

the skull

& when

I arrived at the house

she said

how when at first

she saw me

walking

from the distant corner

of the paddock

she had

panicked in horror

thinking

I was carrying

a dead child

up from the

river
we

laughed at this

as I lay

the bones at her feet

with some

dignity

for the substantial

presentation

of the dead

and we

looked at them

wordlessly

eternally

not a child

just bones
it was Easter

so we had time

to begin

making all kinds

of new

conditions

found

an old

bicycle wheel

rim

& tied

the ribs in

a hanging

circle

for the wind

to reanimate

& hallow

as her break

grew

wider

darker

& for a while

I broke

alongside her

was perhaps

even broken

by myself

but
I kept the bones

whole

the whole time

in a box

I bore

from house

to house

over the years

the skull

always

nailed in the wall

above

my writing desk

the vertebrae

placed

delicately

on windowsills

& bookshelves

their

long thin arms

white

angelic souls

dead

wombs

full of the river’s

echo

silent letters

on the book spines

unknowingly

radiant
that’s how

there are still

all these

old

bones of mine

on my desk

on bookshelves

& today

after a dream

where I

measured out the years

in bones

laid out

one

after the other

I held

the same vertebrae

I brought up

from

the river that day

& in its dead

light weight

gravity

I knew in fact

after all

it was a child

all along

not a bone

we held between us

then but

a child of the hollow

centre

where love like

marrow

of the same

flesh & blood

grew & grew

by the altar

of our bones

&

when they broke

they all

dried out

a river of dark blood

escaped

into the atmosphere
& so now

all the bones

are empty

corridors of dust

the child

a pile of bones

offering

as it did

back then

to be nothing