CRITICA

Someone told a story of a man and his daughter
coming upon a fence made of human bones.
A fence? A wall? Something
more random, like bones
tossed on top of each other
because they were there, because
there were so many, because
there was a war going on and bones
were the remnant? They had been walking
through woods. Woods? Where?
We know these things happen. Whether from slaughter,
famine, thirst, disease. War
is the shorthand, but you could touch
any one of these bones – femur, humerus,
jawbone, cheekbone – and say war
was the reason. See this
child’s pelvis. Perfectly arched and so
bare. The daughter
looks up at her father, who does not seem
to be startled. They have been walking
a long time. They are so tired, when they
pick up the bones they feel
their heaviness. (Are they,
too, fleeing?) Look! I can see the bones
of my own hands, the girl
says, but her father
says nothing. He has been staring up
at the trees,
the sky.