My bones have been like cabinets;
the hinges all dust, wood punctured.
Breathe, hope, stamina (the grains wheat enough to take on
absence, sweat, and nausea) were misplaced.
Their dearth rearranged my skeleton in certain places,
and I stuck out heresunk in there.
The nonexistence was pushy
bored with the fractures,
ignorant of setting the bone.
I was ignorant of setting the bone, too.
Mirrors were poor reflections,
wasted glass, unable to diagnose.
I was intact. It appeared
that way. The angles spoke of it
they expressed the wholeness of body. Sure they did.
It spoke of other images, too, the one image, mine
like silverware sticking out of me obnoxiously,
unkempt and gray and sharp, with no regard for
But I was still fleshstill, I had
eleven ribs, eight fingers, two kneecaps.
And my marrow
had air pockets.
There were places inside me, little drawers to whole rooms
that were obsessed with being empty.
They were stable, as well.
This pantry was a fleshy mansion;
I was structure, secretswalls inside of rugs.
God found windows where there were none.
Ash got sucked out of my pores,
Cobwebs died at His breath.
My skin inhaled, and I am not a pantry
without food or entryway.
All the places inside of melittle drawers to whole rooms
have been broken through, keyholes filled
All that I lack I do not.
All that I break for has been cast.
And when the frame of my stomach cracks here,
it is straightened out by a hand able to breathe through ribcages,
heartachegrief like onyx.
I try out the air,
and I am fixed on the lips of Christ.