When the weather is warm, we go to the beach and take out our bones.
Mine are long gray ones that I arrange symmetrically.
Yours are short pink ones that you use to stir your drink.
The waves come in on the beach and we are boneless, unwavering.
We are struck by shared memories of grandfather in the war.
What did he feel as he lifted out men on stretchers?
Blood everywhere, and visible bones.
We put our bones back in after sunset and go out for dinner.
I don’t want you to pay, but you always insist.
We had different grandfathers, but in the same war.
The one where we bombed Cambodia.
Oh! When we’re home, we take out our bones again
The television purrs in the corner and we speak our truths.
This is where he kept his gun, this is how he set up his tent.
Our collective grandfather listened to Bob Hope.
You and I, besides being boneless, have nothing in common.
You and I are like towels left out in the rain.
So fully absorbed that we’re heavy and useless.
So in need of a good wringing out.
When the weather is cold, bones stay in – all winter
We stay in too, like cats in a den
Eating food out of cans like soldiers
Jingling dog tags, whispering to limbs.
