Quinn Rennerfeldt – Low Bones, Whittled One


Low Bones

We nurse our cold-clean

stomachs, famished and

fastened shut by each

rum breath, silenced by our

lead heaven, needles slipped

up arms in a harem of horses.

We sleep, clinging to the elbows

of spring, shackled to the warmth

of doors.  Safety is any number

greater than one; each night together

we are wealthy. Home

is just gravity adjusting

our low bones,

bagged and ready to go.


Whittled One

My hands linger on the ripeness

of my body where you ripple

and sift. Again I wonder if

you will be too skinny to thrive, a throw-

back baby they tell me can’t live. What if

the harvest of my meat and meal

can produce little more than jellied

bone and a whining, whittled-away

thing? I feel you move like a stretch

or slow dance and want to believe

you are all healthy and brawn, the things

Darwin would write of with raw, respectful

fascination, a body threaded thick

with living genes. My home diagnosis is

I am suffering from a heart

that doesn’t yet know how to love you,

little fleecy thing alive

in the shell of an organ like an eyelid,

thin mystery within my skin.

Quinn Rennerfeldt earned her degree at the University of Colorado at Boulder and currently lives in Denver with her daughter, husband, and ornery cat. She currently serves as a poetry co-editor for Blood Lotus. She was most recently published in Wazee Journal and has work forthcoming in Slipstream in 2014.


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