Divination

we call up his name
the spirit inside kicks, is answered
by the humming of a tin machine

we wonder at the curve of his spine
the round knuckles and tender ribs which squirm and flex
drawn pointedly, light against dark
his back arched like a seahorse

in that moment he is as foreign and strange 
as any inhuman creature
but one carried deep within the shell of her self

she wants to pull his flesh from the fire
and count each precious bone

© Clare Jackson