Amy Newman

Bones and Doubt

 

I’m bones and doubt: starved, starved, starved.
But anyhow, going on and on.
The world released me and it felt like a kiss,
like a dead rabbit’s eyes emptying out.

But anyhow, going on and on,
the days tumble out and the nights distill
like a dead rabbit’s eyes emptying out.
What am I thinking of, excessive love?

The days tumble out and the nights distill
my pumping sweet-crisp, feverish heart,
what am I thinking of, excessive love?
The heart an apple? Not that again, not Eden.

My pumping sweet-crisp, feverish heart,
an old nostalgia peeled to flesh.
The heart an apple. Not that. Again, not Eden,
Nothing doing. A hiss of its dead pelt,

an old nostalgia peeled to flesh,
spread out beneath the leaves, gristly, pearled.
Nothing doing. A hiss of its dead pelt
irregular and elegant as death, no more than that.

Spread out beneath the leaves: gristly, pearled,
twisting in worms, wearing me out, all this.
Irregular and elegant as death, no more than that;
none of your transcendence to write about.

Twisting in worms, wearing me out, all this.
The world released me and it felt like a kiss.
None of your transcendence to write about,
I’m bones and doubt: starved, starved, starved.