4/5/22 Workshop – A Poem by Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach

Bone Appendix – by Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach

After Alexandra Petrova

Trace your son’s left hand
against construction paper
with a nontoxic marker,

teaching him the edges
of his bones. Then fill
the space between

with what shines
or powders, glitter,
crushed cheerios, flecks

of skin even, teaching him
his bones remain
in spite of it. Let him try

to fit his fingers in the contours,
teaching him his bones
keep growing. And when

he makes two fists, afraid
his body can’t keep up
with what’s inside, clenching

hard as teeth to keep his bones
just as they are, to keep them
from sprouting out, tell him

of  Ukraine’s oldest apple tree
that grows its branches
low into the ground

until they drink the soil—
an indiscernible colony
of roots or eternally new trees.

And when he falls
asleep pressed to your chest,
trace his right hand

against the tree-house
rib cage it first grew, teaching him
the endlessness of bones.

One thought on “4/5/22 Workshop – A Poem by Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach

  1. Anita Lim


    Learn, unlearn, relearn
    How do I
    teach you something
    you need to know?

    Well, it depends,doesn’t it?
    If you want to learn it,
    or not

    The really important stuff
    I’m going to have to live it.
    as I go along.

    How do I do life?
    Hopefully, with grace mixed in with tears
    Courage as fear is welling up
    And threatening to stop
    me from making choices
    Acceptance and self- kindness for all my mistakes
    Laughter in the tears.
    Hugs and touch
    Looking up, not down
    Life as a prayer
    Smiling while holding on in the storm

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