SARA RYAN

Ode to Bones

White coral, rigid sketch of my insides,
the click
of each fitting joint,
moon stones, their lightweight toss.

My skull is a bald hill,
a white, white dune.
It is a heaving cellar; a cold, cement house
full of echo and flushed,
blooming nerves.

Without bones, the flesh is a puddle,
a swimming mess of blood
and useless muscle;
wingless.

There are eight bones in my wrist.
it is a narrow tunnel of writhe and flick.

My collarbone, a disappearing bowl.
It pulses and dips with the shoulders,
in and out, a creamy white
a dance of carving deep.

It is the most brittle,
it snaps
with a shrug.

The femur though, bone of rock,
bone of walk and stand.

My ribs are porous stilts,
hollow, avian
they breathe and sheath themselves
in the warm and wet
bucket of body.

Without the flesh, bone becomes skeleton:
white memory, bundle of sticks,
a clacking necklace.

There are bones in my ears;
this is how I can hear death.

My bones break on their own,
shudder into my corners
like small birds.