Joint Pain
I move my joints and marrow
leaks out. The bones are cratering like moonshine,
pulling Corinthian lines over my ribs–
there’s a dull ache in my back and
no way out.
Consider the architecture of falling apart–
cartilage, grudge-swollen,
stiff rills of memory splitting it down the middle
like firefly-wings.
Consider deep breaths, muscle blistering
between inhalation and skin.
I take the stagnant pulse of my hand and try to pluck out tendons until
they sing sweet. They snap back bitter and this is what chronicity means:
never easing the ache.
I’ve swallowed up the aching,
the bile-bite of envy,
and stored them here,
in the interstitial space
between bone
and growing old.