Ribs

When my arms are down,
you can’t really see them.
There’s not enough tension, there’s too many layers to sift through.
But when I reach up towards the sky,
they rise to the surface of my skin like long fingers,
one, two three, four, pressing against the membrane that contains them.
They’re ready to break through my skin and gasp for air,
release from the prison of my fleshy torso.
They keep me strong, I’m fearless so long as they exist
to hold me up, rigid and unyielding.
Sometimes I’ll raise one hand up, elongate myself
and with the other hand, trace them
and push them, test their density. I tap them like piano keys,
the sound is slightly musical, but mostly hollow.
I feel each tiny thud echo in my spine, until I’m just
one big cavern of sound, rattling like a maraca,
or a shopping cart with a broken wheel.
Sometimes I wish they were profound enough
to hold onto, grasp like a banister,
hang ornaments from, a breathing Christmas tree.
I need them, more than they know. They are the silent
guardians whose presence makes me possible.
They defend the delicate life that lurks within:
the meaty, moist, throbbing tissue – so vulnerable and helpless –
now safe within the vibrating bones, beating to their melody.
I am safe from the probing forces around me,
all the jabs and gestures, the slander and slurs
cannot get past my iron barrier, those sturdy ridges.
For inside them beats my caged heart, secure, untouchable,
living serenely in the comfort
of its own white picket fence.




- LAP etc.