bones, broken or not

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I am bones when I see a friend
I am bones when I eat
I am bones when one of us survives
I am bones when I lose a friend
I am bones when I am hungry
I am bones when one of us goes missing

I am bones because
thoughts about feelings are lanterns in dark, empty rooms
I only imagine what might be there
no light shines around the heart
and
feelings expressed as words are chattering teeth
I only hear an echo of
wet cracking and heavy flapping
the feelings lost in translation

I am happy when I see a friend
I am happy when I eat
I am happy when one of us survives
but that is not adequate

I could regurgitate a thesaurus, vomiting up excited, elated, pleased
but those are just words for happy
If you missed the expression of happiness
no words will make up for it
I will not make up for it
If I do not know if I am happy
then I am not paying attention

I am sad when I lose a friend
I am sad when I am hungry
I am sad when one of us goes missing
but these are not adequate

I would be sick all over the page with sorrow, mournful, somber
only shattered teeth from the mouth of sad
If I missed the expression of sadness
in any of its degrees
I will not make up for it with words
If I do not know if I am sad
then I am not paying attention

But feelings are blood, moving in and out
always there, always flowing
I am more than that
bones remain after death
so I will know

I am bones when I see a friend
I am bones when I eat
I am bones when one of us survives
I am bones when I lose a friend
I am bones when I am hungry
I am bones when one of us goes missing

broken happiness is sadness
broken sadness is insanity
broken bones are bones
I will say I am bones
broken or not

And I write.

A poem.

And I love you
even though
you are gone.

And I sit
in my feelings
and enjoy them
because I am alive.
And then
I feel
the next thing
that comes.

And ancient
cosmonauts
hold up
scepters
in a statue of liberty pose
in the kingdom
of outer space.

And wolves
drip bloody howls
into snow.

And red haired girls
dance
in fields of flowers
with their eyes
closed.

And
I write.

And
I love you
Forever.

Rope, Blind, Sword

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I step outside and look around at all the legs and torsos around me. I can’t see too far because of the fog around my head. Everything is monochrome, it’s always been monochrome but I have a feeling that I’m missing color. It’s a dull ache and I suspect that the heads of those around me, attached to the necks, torsos, and legs of those passing me in the fog, poke through the clouds above. Others breath fresh air, they see colors above the fog, they feel and express those feelings.

I stand on my toes and crane my neck, willing my head past the clouds to something else. I never seem to be able to reach it. I’ve stacked crates, books, climbed ladders, but I can never get high enough to see past the monochrome.

Sometimes, I’ll go to a bar and some old man will push a glass full of gold with bubbles in my direction. I drink it and I catch glimpses of brightness, take deep breaths and feel something in my chest, rattling at my rib cage. Some moments there’s a tiger biting at the bars and other moments there’s a mouse passing freely throughout the world of my body. The bubbles in my glass fizz and pop but my head is tilted toward the sky.

There must be a reason young men look up at the sky and shake their fists while old men stare at the ground and rub their tired hands. I was born to die but while I wait I wave my hand in a long, slow goodbye. My eyes see but I think I’m blind. Ropes are for tying down and swords are for cutting but love is for those still waving goodbye.