Ten Thousand Thousand Bones

by

Mark Turcotte

for Joe Schranz

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From long away from
behind museum doors from
darkly dusty rooms

I hear Grandmother
rattling she rattles
among ten thousand thousand bones
I hear Grandmother
rattling she rattles

She is frightened alone
among ten thousand thousand bones
taken from warm belly earth
hot heart of earth
that was her resting home

crying cold
shaking on the shelf alone
rattling
among ten thousand thousand bones.

    .    .    .

We wait for you Grandmother
here in the wood
where you belong

The deer are stamping circles
scratching at the ground
leaning their ears
to listen for your song
but you are gone

The branches of the trees
all ache for you
with their roots below
that once cradled you
bending reaching
to hear your song
but you are gone

The river moans
your missing voice
the grass and stone
are silent as they mourn
and listen listen

The wings of hawks
call out your name
and wonder wonder
where you've gone

answered only by your rattling
from where you shiver
cold alone
among ten thousand thousand bones

    .    .    .

Grandmother do not forgive
them they know
what they have done

taken you from
sacred circle light
and left you
in their tomb
among all those other bone

Fools
they refuse to hear
the anguish in the earth
the cry of fox and pheasant
in your home

Fools
they refuse to fear
the angry step of spirit horse
whose hoof
shall make a rattling
in their own living bones

    .    .    .

We wait for you Grandmother
here in the wood
where it's been so long

The deer are scratching circles
stamping at the ground
leaning their ears
to listen for your song

The branches of the trees
all ache for you
with their roots below
that once cradled you
reaching bending
to hear your song

The river moans
your missing voice
the grass and stone
are silent
as they mourn
and listen listen

The wings of hawks
call out your name
and wonder wonder
where you've gone

answered only by your rattling
from where you shiver
cold alone
among ten thousand thousand bones

Grandmother do not forgive
them they know
what they have done.

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From an idea by Kathleen Presnell. Dedicated to an ancient woman taken from the earth near Lenox, Illinois in the winter of 1993/94 . . . and to the men and women who have stood in her honor.

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From The Feathered Heart, Michigan State University Press
© 1995 Mark Turcotte

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