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    Our Gleaming Bones Unrobed
    Our Gleaming Bones Unrobed
    Our Gleaming Bones Unrobed
    Ebook64 pages22 minutes

    Our Gleaming Bones Unrobed

    By Grant Loveys

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A first collection of poems from the winner of the Cuffer Prize for short fiction
    Our Gleaming Bones Unrobed is a haunting debut, a poetry collection thematically focused on discovering the structure (the figurative bones) beneath the appearance (or skin) of a situation.
    This poetry is at once memento mori — a reminder and celebration of our mortality — and a lyrical exploration of the spirituality of the mundane, the possibility for revelation found in the commonplace.

    The universe’s heart is a ruined house.
    Written on the door is this:
    you cannot do a thing that has not already been done.
    – from “On the Occasion of a Book Burning”
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherECW Press
    Release dateOct 1, 2012
    ISBN9781770903142
    Our Gleaming Bones Unrobed

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      Book preview

      Our Gleaming Bones Unrobed - Grant Loveys

      Proust

      AWAKE, SLEEPWALKER

      Time in your jail passed slow, like

      a lover’s tongue turning

      in the mouth’s soft cave.

      Seven digits for six escapes,

      two for the first so there’d be no second.

      I never wanted the parts of me you didn’t touch.

      Let the mask slip, but never my thoughts.

      The guards put their rifles down, leapt from their towers.

      They’d never seen anything like me,

      deathbound, chomping for the chair,

      cursing a clutch of diamonds for a glimpse of the dirt.

      You tapped awake, sleepwalker on the wall of my cell.

      My heart thumped back a few lines in code:

      Release me, but incompletely.

      I’ll give you my life, but my dreams are my own.

      The law demands we receive what we’re owed.

      But what of the thing we desire?

      Here, let me confess my crimes.

      THAT OTHER THING

      Miners speak of finding frogs in stones,

      emeralds bathed in mud

      occupying their own perfect negative space —

      nestled in as if grown there,

      as if one stray cell drove itself hysterical

      and erupted

      knitting together the most bizarre form

      it could imagine.

      This is what I’m thinking

      afterward

      with your ruffed head on my chest

      smoking old cigarettes which pinch

      the soft flesh of my throat.

      Underneath your hair,

      that big vigorous bloom,

      and beneath the china plate of your skull

      is everything you’ve ever known

      or been or seen or done

      twisted into the folds of your brain

      waiting to be discovered,

      dribbled and dappled

      with the film of light

      sloshing down the hollow of your hips.

      I am suddenly certain of two things:

      The existence of secret frogs

      and that other thing

      I’m about to say.

      WHAT THE ROBOT LEARNED OF LOVE

      The robot chewed contentedly,

      hinged jaws clanking apples to mush.

      When the people had asked the master

      why it existed, the master had said

      because it can.

      They took that

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