She Loves Me

Bones

Remember the December afternoon
her bones spoke to your bones?
Beneath her lace shirt, her clavicle
just waiting to be noticed, its
close-up collared around her neck
as it strained towards that one
spectacular blue shirt. A shirt
even Daisy Buchanan would notice
with her West Egg voice full of money.
Your bones brushing against her bones
makes her rich in a way that feels
stronger than Jay Gatsby's diamonds.
Who needs a narrator when your bones
translate the longing of skin into structure?
In that one embrace her thoracic curve
danced towards yours better than a waltz
in any old movie. Of course her heart gallops
beneath her bones when your blue shirt nears,
but what about the others? Twelve hearts sit
inside her spine and inside your spine,
vertebrae faceted together in bony gossip
as they conspire to break each other open
and see the hard love tokens inside,
for skeletons yearn without permission.
If you could only see the way yours
walks towards her before your heart
or mind have a chance to catch up.
If you could only see the way hers arrange
each outfit into the fashion of flesh waiting
for your bones to undress. Her locked
jaw, the clicking of ribs, how they realign
to accept your ribs, the brutal crush of symmetry,
the ease of a perfect fit.