Bones.

A few weeks ago, I participated in a week long exercise offered by Liberated lines, which, in their own words was about:

“one free week of sweet and soulful prompts to launch your self into the newness of the upcoming year.”

Be more you.

“Seven days of daily devotion to your own words and creative spark can be like magic in your hands and heart. Just the kind of magic you’ve been seeking. Be more you.”

Every day they offered a word prompt and we were asked to write our thoughts based on that word, without worrying about it being correct, or just so, or neat, or tidy, or what have you. We were encouraged to just let it flow naturally. It was awesome!!

One of the prompts offered was ‘Bones’. And this is what I shared:

Skin on skin,
the soft pressure of bone on bone,
joined in prayer,
I have my grandmother’s hands,
and my mother’s cheekbones,
her shoulders and broad back
but my father’s eyes
and love of literature.
My spine is my own though,
always curved, much to my mother’s chagrin
and I am sure my grandmother’s.
They are like that, straight backed,
warm and sincere and brave to their bones.
The deep cave of my hips though, the bones that tangle there
and help hold a child, I cannot tell us apart.
I see my mother there, and my grandmother,
and her mother, and that is how it goes,
beyond the measure of time and memory.
I am a part and apart, and buried,
and burrowed deep
within these borrowed bones.

 

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