The Beauty of the Bones

The Beauty of the Bones

Their splendor 
outdoes 
the dull shine 
of your flesh.  
That pink tint 
fixes itself, not 
like the blush 
that rippled 
down your jowl
and around 
your fat neck, 
guardian 
of your worm-
plagued Adam’s 
apple.  
That belly swore 
a greedy appetite—
this won’t do.
Give me 
your backbone 
straight-arrow, 
your ribcage 
circling birdless,
your hipbones 
never swaggering
a promise 
of a good pump 
they won’t keep. 
The click 
of my bony 
knuckles 
on your dry 
skull barks
a sweeter tone 
than the chimes 
of your voice box. 
The beauty 
of your bones 
clacks a bare truth—
your ripe flesh
proved all 
I cracked it up 
to be.