Bone Orchestra

I play my ribs

Up and down

Like a lyre.

One and two and three

pounds I need to lose

or ten,

maybe more

until my bones are an orchestra,

playing a dirge

while I don't look back;

until I can count them

when bored in a boring room,

if I squint my ears,

the droning can play accompaniment.

One and two and three

years more and maybe

I'll be grown in spirit

and not just time;

I'll meet a woman in the mirror

instead of a sapling,

done growing, not done

crying in the wind

with rattling fingers

ever since her father froze her

rather than see her break.

One and two and three

days left

until I can sleep;

there's a ghost in the light,

it goads me on,

I turn it off but it doesn't leave;

my perished Patroclus

pushing me through the night,

through the week,

warring against enemies in my mind

that I made real.

Four and five and six

seeds in my mouth,

red bleeds into red,

red meat, and sweet;

I've buried my bone orchestra

and donned a different sort of dress,

danced to a different music,

not married, but marred;

home is a memory,

if I go back

I still wouldn't be there.