Friday, September 9, 2022

The Bones

It is a definite fact, hinting of some metaphor -- 

the birds have changed their morning habits.

I am looking for my deer bones to cast 

on the Indian blanket a shaman gave to me,

to read a message from the random toss

of reality of the dead for the living.

I tend not to do this.  I fear my own interpretation

of what the bones are saying.  I could be wrong;

I have no way to know I’m right.  Following what

I say can lead to unexpected conclusions the bones

never thought about, meant to say but absolutely

the right words in the right order meaning implicated

in the way they’ve come together.  At best, I’m a half-assed

shaman; the bones rattle in my hand, look away 

as I toss them, close my eyes before I see where 

they lay.


-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com 

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Art by Zach Baker

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