The Matter of the Marrow

In the bone’s womb

a pulp of red squish

shapes new cells—red, white and platelet,

the warm salt that any wolf who brings me down

would crack my ribs to lick.

Blind to its own pulsing scarlet,

a concentrate of life, a blood farm,

blood forest, blood spring that steams

and bubbles—this sea of cell seeds

traces the secret interiors

of sternum, clavicle, scapula,

the true lair of the Fates

where they spin the future’s fluid,

corpuscles of destiny,

while neurons natter on

about the fable of free will.

Indra’s Neural Net

The current begins

inside your head—

cradled by your skull,

lit from within by lavender

lightning, it tentacles

down your back and out

to the furthest reaches of your limbs,

some nerves stopping

at skin but others reaching further,

to transmit and receive  

in every direction, in every dimension.

The sky god Indra

cast a net across heaven

with a jewel at every knot,

each one glinting reflected light

from every other gem, the way

your hundred billion neurons flare,

stars in a galaxy gathered

as far off the ground as legs and spine

can reach. Ion blaze of consciousness,

you are the point of contact

with every other point of contact.

A Questionable Reputation

It’s a toad, they’ve said,

leaping about within the gut.

A horned organ of insanity,

the sacred source, Satan’s

sewer, a lesser scrotum

inside-out, the great mother,

wellspring of wiles,

a labyrinth of derangement

and rebirth.

The only one

of my acquaintance

is a hard little swell

of muscle not much given

to drama. She doesn’t bleed

a lot, doesn’t hurt that bad

or demand babies, but does

chuckle at the idea

of being a toad,

or maybe a great

green frog who splashes

at the edge of the pond

on an August night

and bumps mud butts

with the singing bulls

in order to score

a righteous piece

of frog ass.

Family Heirloom

Something in you swishes

through the sun-warmed grass

as you lie in wait for prey.

Something rises up and rattles

to warn intruders off. Something

lets you hang from trees

and eat ripe plums with all four hands.

Down, deep down

the ladder of your spine,

further down, underground,

there it is—

the birthright handed on

through generations,

relic of your royal line,

a secret bit of living bone

that still remembers

how to wag.

Joanna Gardner is a reader and writer based in New
Mexico. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The South Dakota Review, River Sedge, Coyote Wild, and Flutter. You can visit her online
at www.joannagardner.com.