Tuesday, 24 November 2020

Bone Mother

by Cynthia Anderson

She dwells in the seat
of the sacred, building
the framework that lets you

move through this world—
stern and stoic, shunned
and unbeautiful, her face

a skull, a study in stone.
Used to being ignored,
taken for granted,

she walks within you,
every step an affirmation
of her power. She leans

on her staff, looking
straight into you,
twin suns for eyes,

crescent moons
on her cloak.
She has waited

for you a long time.
She knows how
your story ends.

* * * * *

Cynthia Anderson lives in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, and she is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has authored nine collections and co-edited the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows & Ravens. Recently she guest edited Cholla Needles 46, which is available on Amazon.

1 comment:

  1. Strong, original metaphor, a welcome introduction to my bone father.