Rubbing Tine by Avery London (15, California)*

I found a rubbing tine last Valentine's

bouncing under rubbish brush in the Californian 
gob of a Sun. It asked: When did you last feel clean bone, hun? When
                       did you last pass your hand across a piercing point and
                       ​remember that Icarus 
became his own grave? 

---

I laughed my way backwards. 
Back to septic bones. Back to a laugh 
too smooth to breathe. 
Chalky teeth were dogmas on Mondays, 
gnashed on Thursdays, whispering no prayers on Saturdays.
Its voice stuck with me. 
                                                                     When was the last time you felt joy, 
                                              not any of that pill stuf ? the tine had asked. 
                       When did a heart become an anchor 
and the waves blood-red? 
I hiked home to a saucepan and buttered myself: 
the sauté blunted the bitterness 
so I tasted better. 
Eat me with salted tofu over white rice 
and tell me abuse isn’t a spice. 
                                                                     It isn’t. 
Speckled ribs sloughed onto the table 
and I tried to forget the tapered antler. 
                                              Is it worth it? the tine lapped 
Gobs of Sun sizzled against skin, 
the light of rusting tungsten. 
                       ​You’re sailing a rotten vessel. 
Why are you afraid of landing? 

Tears streaming through my larded lips

​as I rummaged around the roughage 
in search of California’s foreign oracle. 
Towards thicket and thin, that Earth-angst, 
the tine trilled through trees: When did you last feel tonic, my bee? ​
                                              When did you last dive to the underworld 
                       and beg Dido’s forgiveness before 
clamouring back to the sea?
I cried my way forwards. 
Caked nails combed the county 
for an inch of bone. I was drowning. 
It chirped beautifully that night after Valentine’s: 
the night when love grows teeth 
and sinks the marred crimson gnarls into your jugular. 
                                                                     When did you forget your prayer?
                                              the tine bellowed through bushes. 
                       When will you remember it? 
When will you feel clean bone? 
Fingers wrapped around the rooted tine
—my waterlogged fault line— 
and choking brine became benign. 
The antler washed my wounds. 
                                                                     I’m proud of you. 
I cradled the tine in my arms, 
rubbing the silent cartilage. 
                                              You did it. 
My ribs reformed. My butter forsook. 
My burns became frayed feathers. 
                       ​You found me. 
I smiled without dogma, without gnashing, 
a prayer of good bone upon my breath. 
Unlike bad bone, it didn’t bite. It didn’t laugh. 
It gave voice to the cosmos of carbon. 
I could swim again.

I found a rubbing tine last Valentine's

who sang an unfinished song that we completed 
together. We asked: Who are you? 
                                              Who are we? 
                       When we break, 
will we know each other’s names? 
The tine’s name was Greatness: 
they came from a great starred stag of six points. 
Like me, six lifetimes ago. 
Pews lining. Sweet wining. 
Something so very divine. 
                                                                     Why are you sharp? 
                                              I asked over a homecooked meal 
                       free from my swine. 
Why are you sharp, yet didn’t poke me? 
Greatness’s face was a tune and I could smell the music.
They were skin on bone and so much more. 
They were a friend, a best friend, a soulmate, 
and they scrunched their melodious face when I said that.
                                              I’m not a tine, butterboi. 
                                              When you touch me, you won’t bleed. 
                       ​When you hug me, you’re not kebabed. 
I’m not a tine. You’re not food, We’re people. 

We’re people 
and I love you.