Thursday, October 8, 2009


Light is short and we begin to sleep
under X-ray aprons. During the day
we still examine our bones. I learn

I have my mother's femur, but
my pelvis is all mine.
You have been cheated out of some marrow,

but my lover's left ribs
are all accounted for. One night
I try to take one.

Under the blanket, under the lead,
two frames rest separately,
though the skins touch.

In the morning I can see
every chip and the missing sponge
that should make your walk towards us

unsteady this brittle winter.
But how you hold up. Two fists
knock knuckles together.

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