As I Press Upon my Raisin-Knots

“one that falls? The roots of the fallen birch
ripping through earth, pulling into light
what should remain dark: long, silent bones,
bones not yet dust, bones unsure of their use --”
“From Sonnets for Red Hill Creek” by Adam Getty


The ribs that cage the innards that contract
with every surge of red recycled plasma-mix
forgot their place last week. It happened
so fast, arms overhead, combing
back bulbs rooted in the skin
of my scalp, with tongs made
of plastic formaldehyde. One parallel said
to the next: I'm sick
of horizont conformity. Could I be the
one that falls? The roots of the fallen birch

exposed? The rebel rib contorted
down, down, cutting
against membrane with its dumb curve, muscle
surrendering from weeks spent
with legs crossed. Active minds
do not make active bodies. Contract,
contract, contract! Raisin-knots
flower beneath, lumps of crunch
for future fingers to pop. Damned rib,
ripping through earth, pulling into light

conversation with the lower back as it rests
against my left hip. If only you were free,
it says, to wander in this soupy sea of organ
organ bone, to separate
yourself from the strangling effect
of flexible tissue. The rib received
no reply. Meanwhile, the arms
swimming atop my head were rigid
spikes of dissonance against
what should remain dark: long, silent bones

aghast at such apostasy – worse
than the thumb of '99. Such disjoint
is against the code of symbiosis! The rib continued
down, grinding and pressing along the femur, cause
of clench and ache. The body in a hush,
brewing within, skin bubbling
discontent and furry as the arms
make their slow descent. A crooked furrow
of angst against these bones of mine,
bones not yet dust, bones unsure of their use –