Impact Joints

[vc_row][vc_column][title type="subtitle-h6"]Louise Lyall[/title][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width="11/12"][vc_column_text]The bearded men call my grandfather bonesbecause he knew them all— tibula, fibulathe name of each rib, clavicle, paetella,toyota tacoma to chevy silverado.[spacer height="20"]The way skin peels back like the soft shell of an orange,sour-sweet and bitter behind the roots of the tongue,when broken open with a sterilized scalpel,hairline instead of compound breakage, clean[spacer height="20"]hands, too steady to hold a pen between thumb andforefinger, just steady enough to peel off an eggshell,rubber gloves are too thin and too small to hold his fingers still.We are sturdy people, as our forefathers were, bones found[spacer height="20"]he fossilized in time, knuckles beaten away byeons of blood and motorcycle accidents.He learned fear of losing and therefore religion,pedestaled presidents, gave power to the people[spacer height="20"]he lost. His hands are broken compound, with thematria and ventricles, father, son and holy spirit.he is father and son, holy to the bones in spirit,to the closeted skeletons and stationary dead.[spacer height="20"]He learns the bones, sleeping underwater, skin,fresh meat, they fit together like you and I do.Fixer of Bones, his knuckles buckledunder their own weight oftoo many years.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]