You who held me all my life
inside your hands
—Jane Hirshfield
Larry said in his studio above the post officeIt’s snowing in April ocean all aroundChris draws a body beside the doorWe both look down at the wooden floor:me boneless at ourA skeleton hung from the ceilingbroken hands in the empty pelvissmall framed short a woman maybeHer bones yellow the holes in her hips I asked—Larry distracted by his baby book by trying to recallthe words from carved onhis boyfriend’s stone: Larry says he saidDo they bathe them in acid all that skin someone touchedLast night my foot slipped off the brake—car in reverse—at the Stop & Shop & I didn’t know how to stopas if detached from my body—dark panic beforerecalling: stick shift clutch brake the date was Larry saidI was exhausted in the church when I saw hima little tuft of hair on his crown I said I tell Larry taped it down
