The bones are the bones of the poet –
integral to the landscape of her body. The
bones are the spines of trees, the bone
white of the moon. They belong to the hawk,
the blackbird, the lion and the deer. They
are, too, the bones of the dead and
discarded, the martyred and maimed and
the simply inconvenient. They are the bones
of the forgotten, who have not
forgotten us....
The fire is love and lust – a lover’s tongue,
a naked woman. It’s the red stones of a
canyon. The fire is the red hair of the poet’s
grandfather, the blood of JFK, a warehouse
burning in South Philadelphia. Most of all,
the fire is destruction; a torching, a bonfire,
a clearing of space for whatever comes
next.
Bone Fire asks how to mourn what’s lost; love what is.
"A poet who...asks the bigger questions – unapologetically so – in language that is direct and immediate." - Philip Cummins (Poetry Ireland Review, Issue 115, June 2015)