20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


Bone Collector

She pieces together
a puzzle at a time.

A shard, a tricep,
a stretch of femur,
attempting to construct
the outline
of something fierce.

She collects broken dolls
with missing parts,
recreating what was
left to decay.

Eyes may fit better
in different sockets,
the porcelain doesn’t
always shine until
it’s cracked. She
takes her time.

Once the bones align,
the flesh can grow,
roped veins,
threaded muscles,
covering the white
of bone,
creating life,
a strength, a purpose.

With the patience
of glass, she draws
fine lips and outlines
the lashes of eyes.

Collector of dead things,
you hold the foresight
to see what could be,
once we are put

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I watch the rain
outside large glass windows
and think of things
best left buried.

I recall childish water fights and losing at tag,
slipping through puddles and staining jeans with red mud.

A droplet balanced perfectly on eyelashes.

I imagine dancing in the drizzle,
books spotted by water,
and how the windows of my car steamed
when that boy with red hair kiss me
over and over and over.

I think of the last time I saw you
and how I didn’t cry when you left.

I watch as water drops
turn to streams and run fast
as snakes against window to bury
themselves in cracks.

I watch the rain
and remember once believing
birds couldn’t fly when wet.

I know better now.



From mountain side
it is easy to see
the turning of the earth.
The wind pushing clouds
creating shadows,
dark and light only
moments apart.
Up here the trees sway
slow dances in the wind.

I watch you,
perched on a rock
beside bubbling spring.
Completely comfortable
in your nakedness;
at peace with the way
skin stretches over bone.

I wonder if there will
ever be a time
when I, too, can let my
hair fall upon bare shoulders,
when awkwardness vanishes
in the folds of soft flesh
stretched toward blue sky,
when I can sit securely
on my own branch without fear.

The river runs thick this year,
higher and faster than I
have ever seen it.
Like you,
it no longer holds
its breath, but I
can’t remember how to exhale.


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