The Bones Below
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About this ebook
DeMulder possesses the most important quality a young writer can have, a unique voice. That voice exploded onto the national poetry scene. Sierra uses subtlety and tension the way photographers use angle. She will eat your heart out with a spoon. -Karen Finneyfrock, “Ceremony for the Choking Ghost"
DeMulder is intensely personal. - Huffington Post
violently passionate and sweet, deftly moving between the two modes. - The Lamron, New Journal of SUNY Geneseo
Sierra DeMulder
Sierra DeMulder is the author of four other collections of poetry (The Bones Below, New Shoes on a Dead Horse, We Slept Here, Today Means Amen) and the co-host of the relationship advice podcast Just Break Up. She lives in Albany, NY with her wife and daughter.
Read more from Sierra De Mulder
Ephemera Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5We Slept Here Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5New Shoes On A Dead Horse Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
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Book preview
The Bones Below - Sierra DeMulder
The Bones Below
a collection of poetry
by Sierra deMulder
Write Bloody Publishing
America’s Independent Press
Long Beach, CA
writebloody.com
The Bones Below
by Sierra deMulder
Write Bloody Publishing ©2010.
1st printing.
Printed in USA
The Bones Below Copyright 2010.
All Rights Reserved.
Published by Write Bloody Publishing.
Printed in Long Beach, CA USA.
No part of this book may be used or performed without written consent from the author, if living, except for critical articles or reviews.
Cover Designed by Joshua Grieve
Interior Layout by Lea C. Deschenes
Edited by Derrick Brown, shea M gauer, Saadia Byram, Michael Sarnowski
Proofread by Sarah Kay
Type set in Helvetica Neue and Bell MT
To contact the author, send an email to writebloody@gmail.com
For Brian & my sisters
"And then the day came, when the risk
to remain tight in a bud was more painful
than the risk it took to Blossom."
—Anaïs Nin
The Bones Below
At First Sight
When she stops kissing you
with her mouth open,
find the screw driver.
Buy a newly cut shank of beef.
Leave so much blood in the kitchen
she has to ask what happened.
When she no longer calls you baby,
hide all the silverware
between the couch cushions.
Send her there to sleep.
If she does not complain,
let the sinks in the bathroom overflow.
Bake the wedding photos
in the dryer. Stand in
the middle of your flood.
Call her name backwards, forwards.
Wave your arms like your chest is a runway.
She is the plane you are crashing.
When she does not reach
for you, pretend
it is the first time
you’ve met.
Misplacing Their Ring Fingers
The summer my parents lost their marriage
like so many magnets kicked under the refrigerator,
my cousin and I named trees after babysitters
we never had. We lived in our bathing suits,
washed our hair in pond water and sunburned.
(Once, my mother slammed the screen
door so hard, I comforted the hinges.) I taught
my cousin how to make face paint out of spit
and dirt. She taught me to swim underwater.
(Once, I found my father weeping on the bed
they did not share anymore.) On the green carpet
of summer, we played until the cicadas, dressed
in dusk, called us to dinner. We kissed goodnight
and I ran home