by | Jun 14, 2017 | Poetry

BONES by Justin Christensen

As we all know, the earth drips memories into our bones as we sleep. Our bones are made of aluminum and sometimes they can snap. I broke a bone once, in the 5th grade, while running around with my friend Dean. He fell on me while my leg was bent. My dad got bent on the weekends. I know other dads have got bent as well, and maybe they were better at snapping bones than mine was. My dad was peaceful I guess, he just wanted me to listen to Bob Dylan with him at two in the morning out in the garage. The garage was filled with cigarette smoke and the gray of the concrete floor reflected in our eyes. Eyes are made of jelly and glass. A girl I know has pale blue eyes, like the Velvet Underground song, and she was in the hospital once because she tried to walk into a river. Virginia Woolf walked into a river with her pockets full of stones. Hemingway put a hole in his head with a shotgun. F. Scott Fitzgerald drank so much that his liver became yellow. The girl with pale blue eyes who tried to walk into the river ended up in a hospital with another girl, named Charlie, who had a shaved head and huffed a large amount of aerosols. She might have known things, this Charlie. She might have known things. Things are made from rubber bands, holding together all the pieces of my best friends. Rubber bands should not be wrapped around your extremities, otherwise they will turn red, then black, and potentially fall off. Often things fall off buildings and into rivers. This is because of gravity, which is made of low-calorie milk and a dirty red apple. Doctors say to eat apples. Doctors have jumped into rivers before. Doctors have snapped bones and put snapped bones back together. I once tried to put myself back together by going to a doctor and lying about having severe anxiety so I could get some Xanax. I never got any Xanax, which is made out of tiny blue worries that float like thunderclouds above our heads as we try to walk through our days. Worries shiver on our ceilings while we sleep. They watch the quiet drip, drip of all of this being slipped into our bones.

Photo used under CC.

About The Author

Justin Christensen

Justin Christensen is a poet, fiction writer, freelancer, and journalist who can usually be found wandering the streets of downtown Minneapolis, where he lives and works. His one cliché but very real dream is to live, write, and work in Los Angeles someday.