Ode to Bones
White coral, rigid sketch of my insides,
of each fitting joint,
moon stones, their lightweight toss.
My skull is a bald hill,
a white, white dune.
It is a heaving cellar; a cold, cement house
full of echo and flushed,
Without bones, the flesh is a puddle,
a swimming mess of blood
and useless muscle;
There are eight bones in my wrist.
it is a narrow tunnel of writhe and flick.
My collarbone, a disappearing bowl.
It pulses and dips with the shoulders,
in and out, a creamy white
a dance of carving deep.
It is the most brittle,
with a shrug.
The femur though, bone of rock,
bone of walk and stand.
My ribs are porous stilts,
they breathe and sheath themselves
in the warm and wet
bucket of body.
Without the flesh, bone becomes skeleton:
white memory, bundle of sticks,
a clacking necklace.
There are bones in my ears;
this is how I can hear death.
My bones break on their own,
shudder into my corners
like small birds.
Sara Ryan is a junior studying poetry at University of Miami in Coral Gables, Florida. She is the editor of Mangrove, University of Miami's undergraduate literary journal. She has been published in Uncommon Core anthology and Wingbeats. She aspires to get her MFA in Poetry after graduating from UMiami.