bone dance

My Skeleton lives in the basement.
The closet was too small, he said,
and drafty,
and besides, he's claustrophobic;
so he lives in the basement now,
luminous, fiercely grinning,
stranded amidst old games
and bell jars
and damp cardboard scents.

He is admirably made, my skeleton,
despite his weaknesses;
He is well suited to his profession.

Fingerbones to tickle my dreams,

Clacking teeth to pinch my ears,

Voiceless whispers to suck away sleep.

Sometimes
I gather him to my breast
on cold winter nights,
bony and bird-delicate,
warming him
with my blood and my breath
and murmurs of comfort.
Sometimes
fibulae and clavicle, rib and spine
Snap far to easily
for such a hard and unforgiving past. . .

Dancing on a grave

Is an unsteady business at best.