Bone Loss
Bones have escaped from my body.
Only small ones, so far. My doctor
predicted this, warning me
that I was weathering badly.
You collect finger and toe bones
when you shake out the bedclothes
and wash them and place them
on the windowsills to dry.
What if some big ones escape?
If I’m flopping like a sponge
should I retreat to the seafloor
and live in the shallows where
I can still catch the winter sun?
My doctor isn’t sure. Like me,
he’s Russian and gloomy enough
to star in Dostoyevsky’s novels.
You urge me to get a second
opinion from a specialist,
but who specializes in bone loss?
Osteopaths, maybe. I walk
with a funny gait, being short
on small bones of foot and ankle.
I wish I’d learned their Latin names
so I could address them properly
and scold their stark disloyalty.
But most of my friends also
have dropped a bone here or there—
most limp as sadly as I do.
You, however, stand sturdy
as the Statue of Liberty, busy
about your usual business.
If I soften enough to revert
to the sea you’ll hardly miss me,
but will wield my shed bones as tools
to shape a whole new culture
featuring your queenly self.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
