Bone

What is this bone, this seizure
of porous strength, this strange
scratch of leftover animal?
I found you in the sandbox
at the zoo, guttered rough
and disjoint from the whole
skeleton that is now nowhere
to be found. Children finger
the edges of your joint;
despite their innocence
they know that you are old
and missing pieces. Now
the sun sharpens its claws
on you. Now the empty
sand cradles your stark voice.
And when I toss you down
from my hands, your solitary
curve shadows the light
with secrets.

© 2006 Christine Klocek-Lim