Sima de los huesos: where
archeologists
dig ancestral remains, hundreds
of thousands
of years old but amazingly
preserved.
We all have our bone pits, at
least I do.
Why so many dead buried, hidden,
rushed
into the ground and covered
roughly?
Periods of the massacre of
friendships,
years of fanaticism burning
affection
like fire in dry grass.
Disasters,
illnesses too boring for others
to endure. Marriage,
divorce
cleave the social matrix in two,
as a highway cuts into a hill
and makes a whole two bookends.
Pits where we bury old faiths,
ideologies we would have, maybe
did kill for when we were twice
or only half of what we are.
Skulls, delicate bones of the
wrists
femurs, jutting hips, the tiny
dice
of the toes, jumbled there in a
mound
singing as they are unearthed to
the sun,
we lived, we danced, we ate, and
you
went on and left us, you went on.
