Rocking the Bone Boat

by Kyla Houbolt

Little son of some dude waving
out the window, moving sideways
to all the traffic, watching the
television spellcasters speak
those magic words:

oops, there are none of those left.
Sorry, all sold out, sold out like
your high school hero sold out,
off the shelf but back on it
again, lookee here! I found
a coin on the ground but

it’s only a token of esteem.
An award for umpty-ump
years of service to the firm.
Those old saints, their skeletons
preserved, with jewels and gold.
What do you aspire to? To
be unburied forever, on display,

stuck to the views of nose-pickers
in the free museums of a failed state?
How do we know it’s failed? It happened
and then it stopped happening, like
everything else does. So what?
Saint of Glorious Enmity,
Saint of On Sale, Saint
of Lost Majesty, Saint of
Your Body Has Gone Missing,
Say it Ain’t So. Saint of Lingering
Doubts.

Have you ever noticed that
a dog will smile at you out
the car window you are passing,
if you say “Oh! Doggie!” to it? It has
become important to notice these things,
how your hair moves in the breeze,
which direction that smell comes from,
is it something you want? Lichen on
rocks, moss, making soil but we usually
in too much of a hurry to wait for it,
buy some Miracle Groan, let the
future take care of itself, like
that poet said about the dead.

Swell. Just what we needed,
and right on time too. Leavened
and risen, smoke from the chimney
of the crematorium, oh wait that’s
the industrial oven at the industrial
bakery where they make hot dog
buns for the schools. How to tell
the difference? Smoke is smoke,
right? Achilles had a heel just like
your loaf of Wonder Brodt, here
we go again.

Now. Look over there, it’s a horizon-
tal scallywag sunrise. Flick the switch
change the channel, still the same
show. Ah well, we can still have
some pie. A big slice, sugar for
breakfast, just the calories, ma’am.
I do not carry a gun. All these kids,
walking around with their guns
sticking out, it’s just bad manners
is what it is. Probably one day
guns will be like cell phones, you
have to have one or you’re hopelessly
incommunicado. Bang bang! Can
you hear me? Bad connection,
bad aim, who bothers even to
aim, just, you know, put it out there.
Nevermind where it lands. What’s
your number, is it up? You may
never know, won’t notice when
the church bells start to ringing,
in walks the choir, oh holy,
somebody else goes to their
reward. Or is it you this time?

I want my number to be a bright one,
maybe a little color in its cheeks, a few
rhinestones. I want my bones burnt,
but with some respect. I know, you didn’t
know me, but I had a life as mysterious
as yours, and if you know your life is
mysterious, you’re on the right track,
which is invisible to most but still there,
hidden under the pretty lies and tempting
snacks. I would like everyone to have
a little taste of mystery, before
it’s all over for this act.

Kyla Houbolt is a poet and gardener living in North Carolina, USA. The poem “Rocking the Bone Boat” to appear in Becoming Altar, forthcoming from Subpress Collective in the fall of 2025.