The Bone House

From The Main Street Rag

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​So many names for the fallible

​​​​perishable temporary

​​​​body that holds the spirit-flame:

​​​​Skin Suit. Bone Bag.

​​​​Luggage hauling around

its rattly clunky cargo.

​​​​Its molten center, the hot heart

​​​​softly steadily beats deep inside.

​​​​Body’s armor walks it around,

​​​​carries it far and wide, offers it

​​​​experiences – seeing with eyes,

​​​​hearing with ears, feeling

​​​​hot, cold, hard, soft, touch of

​​​​nerves’ lovenotes to brain.

​​​​Until the spirit grows restless,

​​​​begs for release again, back to

​​​​where it began, infinity.

​​​​Then the Bone House crumples

​​​​to the ground, a small pile left

​​​​abandoned in the dirt. Remember

​​​​that you are dust, and unto dust

​​​​you shall return, we have been

reminded every year. The priest

​​​​rubs with his thumb

​​​​ashes on our foreheads,

​​​​a small gray sign

​​​​of the cross. Though we don’t want

​​​​to believe it will happen, the closer

​​​​we get to the end, the more we feel it

​​​​loosening, sinking with gravity.

​​​​The heft of the self watching

​​​​its own collapse, gradually,

​​​​the ready husk prodded open

to release what it has held,

faithfully, lovingly all this time,

​​​​the spirit banging on its walls.