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BARBARA DE FRANCESCHI

  Bone and Clay

the museum is poorly ventilated

a venal draught plays with mustiness

body constricts

as though wrapped in a coarse weave

 

I run my eyes over artefacts

whose meaning can only be guessed

the feeling of being watched

is un-nerving

 

tubular bone beads

stingray spines

tripod jars crafted in clay

the mind shuttles to Maya cities

looted tombs

a bloodletting of antiquity

stuccoed walls

            swell in

and out

            glyphs traced

in red cinnabar

            blur vision

behind closed lids

            effigies cast

serrated shadows

feet slide over flakes of chert

nausea gags

potsherds of primal self

list sideways towards a curse

from Rio Azul