The Bones We Have in Common, by Sudasi J. Clement

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The Bones We Have in Common, by Sudasi J. Clement

"This collection is ripe with stories; beautiful sad stories, hopeful dreamy stories, stories of wild wise boys, troubled men and resilient women, scenes brutal and beautiful, heartbreak, understanding, endurance and grace, the risks of love, dreams that feel like waking moments and vice versa. Sudasi Clement creates beautiful and shocking portraits with the camera of memory—these poems are rich with power and love."
—Dave Morrison, author of "Clubland" and "fail"                   
The Bones We Have in Common Copyright 2012 by Sudasi J. Clement

Poet Bio:
Sudasi J. Clement
Sample Poems:
Speechless        Something's Got to Kill Me        Transports of Love

Sudasi J. Clement
Sudasi J. Clement  
Sudasi Clement lives in northern New Mexico, where she enjoys sharing two acres of highdesert country with coyotes, ravens, jackrabbits and at least one tarantula. She is the poetry editor for the Santa Fe Literary Review. She and her partner own Beadweaver of Santa Fe, specializing in beads from around the world, hand-crafted jewelry, and other one-of-a-kind treasures. Sudasiís poems have appeared in many journals including the Sierra Nevada Review, The Mas Tequila Review, Nerve Cowboy, BestPoem, and Appalachee Review.



Weíve hiked this trail a hundred times;
familiarity has made him brave. He skips
ahead of me, stomping dirt clods, swinging
his too-big walking stick, singing. He bobs
out of sight on a curve and his song
merges with the river.

Itís a steep quarter mile to the parking area
and Iím in an all-out sprint when I finally spot him
near our car. He runs to me, grinning. Mom,
a man drove up and asked if I liked fossils!
What did you say? I ask, my heart
pounding in four directions.
I said yes, and look! He unfurls his grubby fist
to reveal all the intricate detail
of a shell etched in stone.

I fix my eyes on his, ready to deliver
the strangers-in-cars lecture once again.
Iíve got one knee on the earth, mouth suspended
open for a long time, long enough to imagine
the man reaching from his window
towards my boy standing inches away,
palm upturned to receive a gift.
The sun illuminates the silken hairs on his face
and neck, his ears are colored with cold.

What, Mom?
I wrap my arms around him and let out my breath.
I tell him itís the best fossil Iíve ever seen.

Copyright ©2012 Sudasi J. Clement

Somethingís Got to Kill Me

Itís a malady in itself, a glitch in the brain
where a litany loops ad nauseum: Borrelia
burgdorferi, Staphylococcus aureus, swine flu.
You name it, Iíve got it. One disease du jour
turned out to be ďmigratory glossitis,Ē which,
though formidable in name, simply means
alas, eggplant sets my tongue on fire.
Palpitations paddled my heart when an ob-gyn
suggested I suffered from micromastia,
but his observation did not imply any
of the myriad dangers in my mental file;
rather that I was a member of the unpopular
albeit uncontagious Itty-Bitty Titty Committee.
Last month after an ultrasound, liver panel,
and several grueling sessions of Chi Nei Tsang,
I learned I have what experts refer to as ďgas,Ē
and itís trapped in my hepatic flexure.
Thank God. In my zealous online research
Iíd settled on advanced pancreatic cancer
and had begun putting my affairs in order.
I know somethingís got to kill me, but it seems
it wonít be my latest affliction, discovered
when I Googled the lone alarming symptom:
waking from deepest sleep to a deafening
boom from inside oneís head. Here I struck
hypochondriacal gold with the surprisingly
innocuous ďExploding Head Syndrome,Ē
It sure seemed like a brain tumor to me.

Copyright ©2012 Sudasi J. Clement

Transports of Love

Two beetles are locked together,
a gleaming orb on our dirt road.
Even my elderly dog sees them
and steps aside. The female arches
her antennae over her head, stroking
the maleís shell as he clings to her back.
Do not supply me with facts
of entomological reproduction;
I am uplifted by what I believe
to be a gesture of beetle affection.

Under a circle of trees
where the neighborhood kids
hang out, vestiges of last nightís
party: cigarette butts, candy wrappers,
a one-eyed jack and the two of hearts.
I pick up the two of hearts,
carry it back to my love-beetles
and slip it beneath them,
leaving them to spark what they will
on this magic carpet in the dust.

Copyright ©2012 Sudasi J. Clement