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The Cry of Meat by B. Jones



A hand exposed,
Reaching for scissors,
Gauze wrappings,
Another hand.

A hand reaching,
The rippling dance
Of bones and blood
Beneath the skin.

Beside the architecture
Of the bloodless heart,
There with cold stones
and grey solidity.

Under the ocean palms,
Ancient red mysteries
Delivering death
Inside a kiss.

A man walking in a circle,
Witch doctors dancing,
Laughing in the disguise
Of the dead god.

Coffee stained graphs
Of light and paper
Framed in the mist
Rising off the lake.

Smooth flying birds
Gliding slowly over
The still surface
Of the lake, my mind.

Maybe we are floating
In a boat upon a dream,
Fishing for reality
With our question marks.

Awakening out of warm blankets 
Our mingled breaths reaching 
Into skyward ecstasies 
Slowly flying south.

The winter laughter 
Of lost souls waiting, 
Waiting for the first sighs, 
Signs, of light, of love.

Round and round 
The age's old mysteries 
Turn in spirals 
Around the bone.

Trembling on the cold sands 
Of yesterday 
With forgiveness 
And a prayer.

What is the prayer 
Of the bone? 
To those whispers 
Cries the meat.

What is the price 
Of love? 
Dance with me 
Under the stars.

The cry of meat, 
The hand exposed, 
The hand aching, 
Opened to the night.

The cry of meat, 
Slipping off the bone 
As a sigh slips 
From the sheath of love.