Seventeen pounds—
the gospel weight
of a skeleton.
Mine is lighter, I think.
It whistles in the wind.

The body, a country
I was told not to settle—
its borders or cities.

I dreamed I was salt,
crushed, dissolving in rain.

The nurses said hydrate,
singing it soft.
But thirst is a clever animal—
it waits behind your teeth,
and never dies.

Once, my reflection
refused to follow.
I named each vertebra
for saints I never prayed to.

I asked for nothing.
Even the air
felt extravagant.

Still, I walked
through winter—brittle,
unfractured.