Have you ever just hurt and hurt and hurt and
hurt until you were tired of hurting
so tired you would give anything to stop hurting
give anything to sleep through the night
give your money to anyone with steady hands
give your clothes to women who go to work
give your amethyst to Isabelle with the pretty name
pendants are for girls who have use for pretty
pretty is a memory too heavy to lift
give your pens to someone with words to write
whose thoughts aren’t mosquitoes zapped by machines
give your kaleidoscope collection to anyone
who can look at the light without shrieking
give the heirloom clock in the hall to Dan
who likes watches and is hard of hearing
it ticks too loud, a tell-tale heart you can hear
from anywhere in the house as you’re waiting
for the sky to signal it’s bedtime
waiting for the bed to get comfortable
waiting for something resembling sleep
that’s all you need—you just know it
more than doctors who don’t know anything
you only need to rest and you’d give anything—
everything— to fall asleep and wake up well
In my hand is a chicken bone my mama calls a wishbone.
She says if two people each take a different side
and pull until the bones break—
the person with the bigger splinter makes a wish.
Right now, the horseshoe-shaped stem is whole as my hand
cups its sides of equal length—two bones that by chance
or design have merged into one like the apex
of Florida and Nebraska Avenues, now Highway 41.
I wonder if wishes really come from the dried bones.
I wonder who I can pick a bone with.
Marissa Glover teaches and writes in Florida. Her poetry is found in UK journals such as Amaryllis, Picaroon, Poetry24, Bonnie’s Crew, Solstice Sounds, and Ink, Sweat & Tears—and is forthcoming at Three Drops from a Cauldron and Riggwelter. Follow her on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_.