Ahavah

My bones are fine and small with a deep blue-purple ache buried by the slightest bit of flesh and a soft white flush. my bones are yours and I tried my best to meet them Papa, you are not gone even if you seem it.

my bones do good things.

my bones hold water and watch it run right through them, weeping forever (but will refrain from breaking one another) my bones steady my head erect in the bathroom mirror, practice facing G-d or lie in bed with shoulders pried open, stinging my bones absorb the shocks.

Your son’s bones are bruised and planted beside the rabbi he chose to speak, over a box of bones, tired and weak (but not so much, not at all if you had chosen not to be) a strange man exchanges pleasantries, his shiny bald head bobbing beside my father dare bend his knees to greet your bones I Think He Likes It.

Your eyes were oval saucers slipping deep beneath their sockets, faint brows perpetually raised  I know nothing besides your Neshama, soft-green where sunlight carves a pastel tunnel through a dim-lit sea my neck cranes up, shadows suddenly covering me  to see the marble belly of a turtle paddling above your reef