BUFFORD: altar/bones

Abbey Bufford


I built an altar of my body to a god that never speaks.

I prayed last night, for the first time in months–

I sent my plea out to the universe

and it bounced back, address unknown.

there is nothing waiting to receive my requests.


the universe is a mere decoration of a suggestion box.


I lowered countless words into the abyss

but my vocal cords always fell short of reaching

the bottom.

I cried out to the stars and i thought their winking back

meant an acknowledgement–

the stars i see are constantly rotating but

when i needed their guidance,

they were perfectly still.


I built a shrine to the shards i collected of myself,

an attempt at self-necromancy that was

doomed from the beginning

but still i chanted and screamed and waited and waited.

and still i wait.


I built an altar of bones, carcasses and cartilage–

every breath a praise to my own unbodied deity;

every step an elegy.


when i die i will be welcomed only by

rot and decay.

perhaps my god is just a pile of bones.

What do you think?