The Bone Collector

By Rosemary Alles

In my dreams.
I walk with matriarchs.

The soles of her feet
are palimpsests.
With each step,
she gathers
the bones of her mother.
Reading them.
Tenderly.
Annotating
her memories
and saving each
in a crevasse,
on the soles
of her feet.

In my dreams.
I walk with matriarchs.

Her body is wrinkled.
More scarred than
the
skin of earth.
With the soles
of her feet,
she listens.
Broken skin
on
broken skin.
The story
the earth tells her
is the same
story
she has learned
from the bones
of her
mother.

In my dreams.
I walk with matriarchs.

She knows
her people
are primal.
An ancient
tribe, once
numbering millions.

In my dreams.
I walk with matriarchs.

She is aware
of the distance
to the far horizon.
And how long
she has
before
the
wandering fire
in the clear
blue
sky
is engulfed
by earth
in shades
of scarlet
and gold.

In my dreams.
I walk with matriarchs.

She knows
of the nature
of water,
the generosity
of trees
and the comfort
of
shade.
She can reach
to the heavens.
Tearing branches.
Bringing
down fruit
bringing
down leaves.

In my dreams.
I walk with matriarchs.

She has walked
the same riverbed
A thousand times.
Maybe more.
Ploughing for water
with
her body’s
ivory.
Swords
digging deep
through the
skin of earth
to emerge soaked
in sand,
in liquid,
in water.

In my dreams.
I walk with matriarchs.

She knows of
unremembered
pathways,
once studded
by rock,
granite
and stone.
And strewn
with the burnish
of a million
leaves.
She knows
of the sound
of rapids and the
raging rush
of molecules
of water,
thirsting for
the roar
of the sea.

In my dreams.
I walk with matriarchs.

She is the matriarch,
the bone collector,
the one
who listens
with her feet.
And in my dreams.
I walk with her.

By Rosemary Alles