Bones

CAITLYN CURRAN

form soft in the folds of a woman until she opens and they belong to someone else. They break to sweet marrow, burn to inches of ash, just like the rest.

When my father lived in California I’d drive up to visit him. I couldn’t go inside, so we’d sit on the porch, drink beer, watch the goat scatter droppings. Everything that wasn’t said, bones kept in a pocket of thought. I still can’t open my jaw enough to speak.

See how the bones map the face of these hills, determine the dry grass, the way it burns. A cracked valley clavicle. Pelvic pond: dry.

See how a grave becomes two sprigs of willow a child brings to its wet mouth.

I use these bones to skip town, forget the fist-shaped holes in doors, the shaking children, the mess of why I can’t go inside. I’ll pad my bones, grow them stone dense. Harder with each step.