What have you done to me?
Morning wakes light in the window. I pull away the covers and lift myself up, but my bones fall out between the sheets.
You are still asleep; the sun creeps across your lips and my skeleton beside you cups your breast in his hand, his bones fat-yellowed and marrowed out with desire; I leave your side and leave my love beside you, I leave all the white osteology of my love.
Is my love macabre? My love rattles. My love clatters and clacks, my love snaps and pops at the joints. I cannot quiet it. I can try to bury all the raw cartilage and calcium of my love, I can try to crack it and mortar it down to so much grey dust,
but my love must be bone: it wrestles under the muscle and blood of my love, under the skin of my love, the bones of my love are what the tendons and tissues of my love bind to when I love you.
My love is lunate and scaphoid. It is vertebral, sternal, my love is cranial and pelvic and hyoid. My love is two hundred and six bone white statements of my love.











