old bones

a change of clothes and a warm towel
to wipe away the flood waters
from soggy skin
patching the superficial damage
ignoring the ghost in the bag
the wet clothes wrapped in plastic

rot takes hold, unchallenged
under fresh flannel and skin
in the delicate groin of the soul
pushing outwards
despite non-perishable meals
and casseroles in unfamiliar vessels

pruned skin and old flesh
a ghost is born by inner cloisters
shakes the framing of the ribcage
to call the thunder home
as a lighthouse calls the captain
and dares you to remember

a sheen of defeat
washes clean in choked sobbing
and the removal of drywall
when the gray face of denial
turns unexpectadly red in this immediate moment
and again
refusing to lie in the waterlogged bed
but gutting damaged walls
and grinding old bones to powder
before patching the body gently
and turning with the earth