By Dick Jones
I have become my bones.
I wear my skin
like a shield of leaves,
like wing cases. I am safe
here at my core.
My mother grooms herself.
She turns and turns before mirrors,
buffing the peach, the downy,
the over-ripe as if
you can hide behind beauty forever.
My father watches apples
falling in October. No-one
will gather them now.
He dreams the old dream
of fruit that lies unharvested.
My lover drinks. His eyes
burn at me across
the beaker’s rim. ‘What
is the nature of this journey
that she needs no flesh, no comfort?’
I have become my bones.
They are a cage for the dust
that is my element.
I diminish. It is cold
here at my core.
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I had a very busy but nice Tuesday, lots of work but also lots of fun stuff. The weather continues to be gorgeous, we had several bunnies playing out among the tulips and hyacinths that are suddenly everywhere, and I got to have dinner with Karen, whom I met at Tara Thai and hung out with at Washingtonian -- I was mostly good in Charming Charlie and stayed away from the temptations of It'Sugar.
We watched this week's Tuesday superheroes -- we're back to too much Daisy on Agents of SHIELD though I mostly liked the writing this week, and The Flash flashback characters were nice to see but it feels like to soon. The James Corden Carpool Karaoke special was very fun but since it wasn't all new material, I wish he'd included "Somewhere After the Late Show." Cherry blossoms from the weekend:
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