February Spikener
What the Bones Know
On December 3, 2010, NBC reported that an area of a suburban Chicago cemetery is so saturated with human remains that bones have been rising to the ground's surface.
the ground brought us together. a mix of parts. resurrection
molding new bodies. knee to shoulder. ankle to hip.
elbow to tailbone. us loving on each other to the point of invention.
laid down on that smooth moss saying, come. build. souls not more special
in they elysian fields—every body got a soft place to land here. the smallest
clatter in a circle, xylophone when they all fall down. spine shoots
his disks at a headstone. hand—just a thumb and middle finger—
plants dandelion in a split skull. every night we tumble, tap, roll,
creak, knock around: body talk. click click. you have seven ribs today.
click click. your knuckles curl more than a half moon ago.
all this: to remind ourselves why we keep returning after that first time.
no lazarus talk around here—ain’t no broken bodies among us.
just new language. we are all that is left.
built to last. artifact. when the flesh sloughs away,
we whistle; listen; tremble in the dark until found.
each rising to tell our story. thwack. crack. thunk. crunch.
go on, show us the body.
tendon ‘til we fall apart.
Detroit, 2009
the day ends and begins in the mouth of a child (who is currently a girl), lips dancing in the shape of a prayer, always giving thanks for breath. during the day, the house rattles. shakes. filter of people coming, going. shoe tongues crack open. floors tremble. what you mean you don’t scream when you come home? we cry. we endure. children laugh after the thuds of skin meeting the floor. my brother grasps at anything, draws on the walls. we outside until all the streetlights come on. there is always more dirt to sift through, dolls to write stories for, some child to be loved on. my sister and i leap off bunk beds, skin our legs open. i handle myself recklessly until i learn how much of myself there is. i am the first of four little wonders. girlhood is a holding, and i discover the refuge of my own arms. my body makes so much music. we singing. we dancing. we laughing. our noise. oh, our noise.
February Spikener (they/she) is a Black femme poet from Detroit and an MFA candidate at Randolph College. Her work has been published in Black Warrior Review, Muzzle Magazine, and Poet Lore, among others. Ever inspired by their loved ones, their poems reflect how they navigate through the world and what it means to love and be loved. She believes that love is and has always been the answer and that the mastery of love is a form of survival. They are also a member of the multimedia group, the Basement Artists Collective. She lives in Chicago.
Artwork: “title” by Daniel Lurie
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