The Other Dead and Splintered Things
Natalia Martinez
At the beach, you ask if I gnaw on chicken bones.
I say yes, then open my mouth to show you
my mother’s teeth, sharp-edged and uniform,
like the other desert animals have,
unlike the half-shells and sea stones
you’ve placed on the small of my back.
I close my eyes to show you,
bite down and wince
at the crack of marrow.
Here is an ocean ritual for things
you wish had been lost: first,
make love in the clear green water,
hold up the head of your lover
so they do not drown
when the waves begin to swell.
The ghost of a small girl-child
will appear; ignore her. Instead,
throw your chicken bones
into the ocean, a sacrifice,
and watch them float off
into the Atlantic.
A soft wind will blow through
the small cavern between your bodies,
making a sound like pressing your ear
against a seashell.
That’s when you know it’s done.
The thing you wished were gone
will disappear with the other
dead and splintered things;
perhaps, then, you will be clean.