Joshua J. Cotten

how do bones fly?
wings, feathered graves
thin and hollow.
cavort luminously
the way sins fluoresce in fire
a calypso on your spine
prayer seeps
heavy breaths,
his vision blacked into the mountain’s mist.
i thought of the hibiscus bush gone now 20 years
that lived at my great gran’s house.
erect, mustard stamen and petals, pink-lipped
tender, nodded
to the wind,
grew out of concrete, soared over the gully
choked with timber-sized bamboo.
there was a Son but
i let go of his hand before a thunderstorm.
his spirit,
already untied, drifted to
be shredded on a thicket of branches
his black body torn
but safe from america
now ruined
in the claw of a tree


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