What a Lovely Flower Our Bones Make


I am aware, disinterested but aware, of my ribcage. The lowest rib itching when I turn my mind’s eye too close towards it. I believe that there is something residing in my bones. A deep-seated fear that I do not know, one which will teach me an ironic and all-important lesson. There are so many bones which we can feel if we tune into them. But I wouldn’t recommend it. I don’t think all our bones have our best interests at heart.

Bone-Hearts, what a novel concept. Creature feature in the integrated whole.

I dance and they dance, and we move.

Together we feel and delicately support.

I want to think the best of them, yet they are clearly malicious.

My rib itches. I want to put my fingers between them and clean them out. Grout the tile work. My rib itches. There is a link missing or a diverted path. Going clank when I stretch            just       right. My rib itches. I have never imagined that my bones are clean. Instead, in mind space, they are a sickly yellow and they ooze a sense of foreboding. To break them open is to release all the sins into the world. I want your fingers on my ribs and your thumbs on my back / And push me and set me open, ‘til you hear my bones crack. 2




They have been mastering the gentle caress. Placing their fingertips softly against my skin. Constant pressure rather than fleeting moments. Palm to the ribs, held at a distance—observed. Their eyes roam through rivers. Divots and rises. We rise and rise and release. ‘The ribcage surrounds the lungs and heart—serving as an important means of bony protection for these vital organs.’ Tongues express themselves differently here, words are lost echoes. They shiver over me, birds crashing against these dual cages, pressing, holding, not a nibble but a bite. The bars interlock. Our skin desires rebellion. I feel their bountiful bones and scream. Sense again the senses.

We struggle to be vulnerable and yet do not have solid defences. Afraid of exposure but easily manipulated. These walls are oh so permeable, but a barrier no matter how loose will deter some folk. The lowest rib in the human cage is full of static. A prickling creature which does not want to be looked at but hums consistently, drawing your attention. This resonant vibration setting the internal screws in motion—we come loose.

Have you spent much time considering the distortion of bone conduction?—the acoustic properties of the human skull? The skeleton inside us and us inside the skeleton. We think in waves. My ribs vibrate with this music. It is higher than I think, but pleasantly pulses deep through me.

Smooth impressions—imprints
sediment reorganised with pulses and pressure
flowing manipulation
fractures not properly resolved but glossed over will come back later in the process
pinched without purpose
this drying out
Where does this desire for smoothness come from? well-oiled parts in the machine
tinkering transmission device
rib bone taken from you
heal the root

cause of the fracture

dimensional folly

protruding signals

I hear that the word for ribcage in Norwegian is heart basket—I have since found this hard to verify.

We have lived with her and grown with her
we have ached as she sobbed and more when she laughs we love her even as she does not trust us.
               When she was little, we could feel the intensity of her fear and her bravery in the face of it. She desired control. For such a small thing she had not yet buckled under this cape’s weight, but the strain began to show in her shoulders and her shaking frame.
                 It was a time in which we were pushed into the limelight. When our protruding proved she had succeeded at something. She would find excuses to reach up high so that people could look at us.

We are here
We are here
We are here
We are here
pressure on the skin //
// lines on a page

Bone marrow—soft and spongy. Found when entering the larger bones (hips, breastbone, pelvis). Full to the brim with stem cells, immature and ready to harvest:

fighting the infected entity
carrying the vital air
stopping the flow and healing


I was made from man’s rib, and he reminds me that it was merely borrowed. He came and burrowed in to take it back.


They present female and so your hand reaches for the small of their back, gently pushing them aside. Who is he? Who is she? Who are they? Who have them come for? They spiral from touches and their bones burn out from beneath the skin. I want to scorch your palm with a warning. Instead, my body is tinkered with—ribs now xylophone.

Plink plonk plink. Ding
Oh-oh-oh–wo-wo-wo {dun dun dun dun}
Mmmmhmmm {ah}




Can you please stop whispering your little bone whispers? Just for a moment. One of these days I will listen to you but for now I am the one with something to say.










rIB mY rIP oUT
rIP mY rIB oUT
please don’t