some days we are sinew and bone,
plucked from carcass like afterthoughts and wrapped in rotting linen,
sun-bleached and silent until the marrow is dry,
prettier at the precipice of being nothing at all.
in another room a man with cruel hands is talking about wishes,
wondering aloud if the sound of breaking bones is baptism enough,
knowing it won’t make him feel whole again
but at least he wouldn’t be the only broken one.