The Bone Wheel
I used to have feathers on my neck
but I had to make room
for the dead, their never-fingers
tracing circles on my skin.
The whorl of a body that lives,
everything spiraling down, in.
When I can’t think, I start walking
in circles. Like a fish that has to be moving
to breathe. Somewhere, the day
has already ended. Here, someone
asks me the time. I know what they’re asking.
I don’t know what I’m saying
when I answer. There’s barely any wind
to lift the flag. The trees are doing their best
to bud through the smoke of last year,
their fire-scarred arms shocked white,
bloodless. I’ve heard they’ve trained dogs
to run loops through the ashy soil,
seeds falling from their backs.
Pain is patient. At night, the trees glow
in the memory of their burning. Angel skeletons
like radioactive girls walking home after work,
rotting light curling into their marrow.
Silk dresses and lace bones for a future
eating itself, the hot breath
of a dog circling down for a nap
it doesn’t have time to take.
but I had to make room
for the dead, their never-fingers
tracing circles on my skin.
The whorl of a body that lives,
everything spiraling down, in.
When I can’t think, I start walking
in circles. Like a fish that has to be moving
to breathe. Somewhere, the day
has already ended. Here, someone
asks me the time. I know what they’re asking.
I don’t know what I’m saying
when I answer. There’s barely any wind
to lift the flag. The trees are doing their best
to bud through the smoke of last year,
their fire-scarred arms shocked white,
bloodless. I’ve heard they’ve trained dogs
to run loops through the ashy soil,
seeds falling from their backs.
Pain is patient. At night, the trees glow
in the memory of their burning. Angel skeletons
like radioactive girls walking home after work,
rotting light curling into their marrow.
Silk dresses and lace bones for a future
eating itself, the hot breath
of a dog circling down for a nap
it doesn’t have time to take.
Danielle Weeks received her MFA in poetry through Eastern Washington University’s writing program. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in cream city review, Columbia Poetry Review, The Gettysburg Review, and Third Coast, among others. Her poem, “Human Uses,” was chosen as the winner of Atticus Review’s annual poetry contest in 2018.
Both “County Line Sky” and “The Bone Wheel” were inspired by the weather of the places I’ve called home—my hometown and my current home in Spokane, WA. Growing up in rural Indiana meant growing up with tornadoes. And now, the last few summers in Spokane have been plagued by wildfire and smoke. I spent the summer watching the fires grow on a map, only being able to hope they wouldn’t come closer.
Both “County Line Sky” and “The Bone Wheel” were inspired by the weather of the places I’ve called home—my hometown and my current home in Spokane, WA. Growing up in rural Indiana meant growing up with tornadoes. And now, the last few summers in Spokane have been plagued by wildfire and smoke. I spent the summer watching the fires grow on a map, only being able to hope they wouldn’t come closer.