1 Oct 2007

you picked up

some dust

as you tumbled across the Nevada desert


and there are nicks

to the left artery

and a gash in your southern hemisphere

from the cliffs of California    


you left some blood

in the river Colorado


and there is a vein

struggling to keep up

with your trot homeward


the Lakes of Michigan

are calling to you—

you lost somewhere on the Great Plains—

a stick and handkerchief

slung over your bold red shoulder


you hear the water


and a cavernous rib cage


and you look to the sun

and ask it not

to make you leather


but to carry you forward



©Julie Bolitho. “heart,” Poems. Ukraine and Other Poems. Leaf Books Press: 2007, pg. 17.





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© Julie Bolitho 2018