The lovely winged collar, slope of shoulders, shifting
of bladed bones—half-seen knobs of spine, row of stones,
muscles tapering at the waist, the way they shift,
when we turn away, as Ben did, at one, shifting
his small body forward on the stoop, back turning
as he waved his father goodbye. And yes, the shift
of your muscles and bones, your hunched shoulders shifting
in that bed, after they sliced your chest, laid the bones
back to expose your heart, and how I touched the bones
of your back, caressed you every time you shifted
at the body memory—your heart, no longer
safe in its bone cradle, exposed too long, too long.
It’s one month shy of a year since that day, that long,
day huddling with Ben, who learned loss at the shift
in his life over forty years ago, that long
ago wounding bringing him here when my longing
was barely voiced. I see us walking the stony
streets that grey February, marking every long
day, the bleak hours we were sent away, ah long
stretches, while angel nurses tended you, turning
you gently, so tubes stayed in your flesh, returning
a few minutes later when you asked if the long
pain could be eased. How the shadow ache in the bones
of your chest sometimes persists if you stretch those bones.
Today, you and I walk downhill to find the bones
of locals, plots marked by mossy stones—graves long
untouched. We wander, come upon Silliman bones,
street name that joins ours, then cross to where newer bones
are buried, to find that marble stone, unshifted
by settling, where a man stands watch by the bones
of his wife every evening, branches of bony
trees catching the last light. We stand near the gray, stone
angel draped in wild sorrow across the black stone
engraved Sarah, then Charles, a promise that their bones
will lie together, note how endless grief has turned
the angel’s stone face to agony, like his turned
back we have passed for months, as we round the sharp turn
near the small, wooden church, and look to find the bones
of his sloped shoulders, how his shadowed face is turned
downward, so he can see her name, and how he turns
his hunched back to the road, creates space for longing,
becomes one with that heart-shattered angel, then turns
away, walks to his parked truck, backs up slowly, turns
right, then right again. This morning, a light breeze shifts
the birthday balloons he’s put up for her, shifting
their blue tatters, the cracked silver letters. We turn
to walk home, past the house where some man gathers stones
to build his perfect walls, the rough wall next door, stones
heaped with spaces for candles, we’ve heard, though those stone
hollows haven’t flamed light in fifteen years. Turning
uphill, we pass the house of wrecked cars, rubbled stones
for who knows what projects, more random walls of stones—
this is New England, after all. I clutch the bones
of your hand as we pass the Trump flag set in stone,
then walk our drive, past the murderer’s house, its stones
streaked with neglect, and up the brick steps you built long
ago. I watch your back, ahead of me, no longer
hunched to shelter your heart, stoop to retrieve a stone
from one of those cairns I can’t stop making, then shift
my focus to your forest labyrinth—the shift
of its path through now leafless trees, how the path shifts
up, down, narrow, wide, leads to the center, the stone
bench your brother Larry gave you. At last, I turn
to follow you inside, where the beautiful bones
of our life wait for us, for, oh please, years longer.
