There are things my body is not telling me:late nights and friends I'll never meet.The yellowing bruise on my hip.Strangers who ask, Haven't we met?Pine needles threaded through my black knit dressand I have not left the city in months.
Morning when my body thinks me asleep,I listen to it work.A soft-footed rummaging,the slow sharpening of bones.Suddenly, a femur thrust through thigh,a door opened, the body no longer at home.
