April 15th, 2014

Steve says bones are not something to write about, or at least that the word bone should not be used, and I know I should listen because he is wise, but I can't resist the urge to imagine them, small or large, couched in the blood and tissue of the ephemeral, and how that will melt and allow them freedom, allow them to bleach, allow them to grind down into the powder of witch doctors or be polished into jewelry. Teeth are bones we can see - little lanterns going forth to make our name known in dark villages. The students bow their heads to the page. They write and I wonder what worlds unfold themselves on the page. In a creation myth I am creating right now the moth is esteemed because the world, in two-dimension, in pastel colors as a map of the Pangea, was carried on its back and when it had flown for a very long time to the edge of the light in a sky that was not yet the sky because there was no earth to define it, it fell to a ground that was not yet the ground and broke apart. Its blood and flesh, the indistinct blood and flesh of insect, flowed and stuck together and from these trembling clumps of once life the earth formed. It formed immediately and swiftly, and in the same amount of time it had taken the great moth to fall from the sky, tribe and village and city state rose, each a rippling muscle on the back of my hand.