POETRY
      Barbara De Franceschi — 'Bone and Clay'

the museum is poorly ventilated
a venal draught plays with mustiness
body constricts
as though wrapped in a coarse weave

I run my eyes over artefacts
whose meaning can only be guessed
the feeling of being watched
is un-nerving

tubular bone beads
stingray spines
tripod jars crafted in clay
the mind shuttles to Maya cities
looted tombs
a bloodletting of antiquity

stuccoed walls
             swell in
and out
             glyphs traced
in red cinnabar
             blur vision
behind closed lids
             effigies cast
serrated shadows

feet slide over flakes of chert
nausea gags
potsherds of primal self
list sideways towards a curse
from Rio Azul