20140119-160233.jpg

Your Monument

The day we climbed a tower of you
Twenty thousand steps to curl
pink stubs around red-rusted bars
come home coated in the flakes of a century.

To run on bursting blisters
Steal drinks before their owners set them down
To fall and laugh and only cry
over the bruises upon unpeeling
later, and alone.
All this lay below.

Bits remain
Hair knots, shed skin
Toenail clippings toothbrush blood
I bind them up with spit
and cartilage torn from my own raw kneeholes
to bring you back a bone-doll
a bad joint
on the brink of dislocation.