Second poem in Precarious, by Allan Peterson


Who speaks for the body? We do.

Every eminence named, each fossa,

eloquent structures of shining bones

as if standing undone on a hill above Urbino,

artists making bright lines in bright sun,

bright language as the bones resurface

after an interim of flesh. Ribs, phalanges,

wings of the sphenoid, shapes named

for what they resemble, scapula a spade.

And how we look lovingly seeing a body

that does not clatter apart, that articulates

without ligaments, that presents in October

poignant reminders begging at our doors.


42 Miles Press. Precarious will be published in September.

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