Contribitor: Korra Abraham-Whatley


These bones
wind-blown
brittle as baskets
too long in the sun

These bones
the stories they tell
the hidden humours
in every hole, every condyle.

These bones
for those who listen
for the language of rustles,
for the dash of scratches
speaks more than any leaves of autumn ever could
speaks of trees yet to sprout
and winters distant yet
and white fields
where the only black is bone.


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I live in a suitcase and enjoy writing poetry while watching the glittering lights of Los Angeles, Rome and Ontario.