Archaeological Discoveries
How do we wrap our bodies around all the loneliness of existence,
the grave understanding that this, and this, and this
is not us? Even when the arc of the nose, or the exact
half-moon smile is recognizable, even when the hair
spins itself into a pattern we have known, still
we wade into the thick brume—
alone:
this word catches at the back of my throat. It
dangles from my uvula, stubborn and sticky from overuse.
I want to peel back the layers of skin that keep me
trapped, to attach my bones to yours, to perplex
future archeologists, leave them dumbfounded
as they attempt to understand how so many limbs could
coalesce, how these fossils fan into a network of fingers,
how the toes continue to be counted and counted and counted.
How does one attach bone to bone, pluck objects
from the dust and dark and decide that this—
this is worth knowing?
I press things to my chest, coffee cups, pages and pages of words,
you, and you, and you. Maybe, if I hold these close enough to my body
I could sustain all by the sheer force of my grasp.
Outside, the slush of winter turns sour while squirrels,
busy with the work of survival, dig. Each treasure
undiscovered bursts into more and more and more.
Aubrey Brady studied music at Covenant College and received her MFA in Creative Writing with an emphasis in poetry at Lindenwood University. Her work has appeared in ONE ART, Ekstasis, Moria, Big Sky Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Montana with her husband, Matthew, and their two children. You can find her online at aubreybrady.com