Bones
Imani Christopher
it begins with a flash of palm
you’re pulling long reeds from the water
or out among the rocks at dawn,
speaking with your mother in shallow consonants.
there are always hands & their symmetry
some unknowable language left up to crude translation.
beyond that, i look to the bones
the stacked beads of a spine
telling me just how you hold structure over rigidity
ribboning up and out into shoulders like your Uncle Atlas’
bound by something in the shape of striving.
strange to think you started as a little one,
grasping to be held & shown the sky
now those teeth go sharp & spilling over a pulse
your name grating from me like the wine-dark sea.
this is what no one can teach you;
how to name the body’s truth and lay it down
carry no evidence of bad love ever moving through you,
of being dragged, half-asleep, towards another purpose
if it settles you, keep the wind & spray & crags in a jar:
a recipe of storm for another day.
for now, it is nighttide & there is only this
don’t be a hero, I beg you
be a dark warmth in my bed
bring me a love that arpeggiates the body
turns it into loose-leaf tea
Imani Christopher is a (forever) poet, (sometimes) florist, and (budding) filmmaker based in Brooklyn, New York. Her poems start with questions and end with memories. When she's not writing, she is probably (definitely) on Instagram.