POEM

Bronze Jehanne

​

Red wine walls, talking floorboards.      In the

oily museum light I am almost afraid to touch her    to

thumb the dip above her mouth

warm the glowy wrinkles of her still lip. I can  only stroke

              the boomerang curve of

jawbone  the smooth spot tucked   under

her ear     and then my fingers smell

like metal. Have you ever       smelled the farmhouse

scent of marrow?

Ask the butcher for some

bones and boil them     until your house reeks

with the sick smell of

old blood.   I shudder, think of swarms

of hands   pressing

for a break  in the armor,      a lilly-soft breast,

flesh to snuff out      burnt bones to smear like

greasy ashes on the riverbank

and

brush my hand against her cheek  watching

palm prints

evaporate from shiny skin.

Emily Murman is a nineteen-year-old writer and illustrator based in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. She holds a Bachelor’s of Arts in writing from Lake Forest College and has most recently been published in Déraciné and The Green Light. Emily can be found on Twitter @emilyrosemurman.