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.