J. Randall Brett

I want to scrimshaw love poems  
onto your bones. 
Scratch the itch of Rumi 
in endless scrawl 
knotting our ribs. 

No, I meant –  
carve totem poles 
of beastings, godheads, 
thunderbirds 
flying from one place in our story 
to another. 

No. I want to begin. 
Charcoal  
and burnt offerings, 
cinders and spark 
like cave walls 
red and black from our ashes.