My Body is Named With It

My joints creak with your
absence as if I am years older.
Bones meet,
crippling themselves with their
own mechanism.
I click when I walk,
the pocks in my sockets
rap a staccato rhythm.

Aching marrow inverts the
dark hollows of my body—
atriums, wombs, cavities,
sick puss suddenly released
into my blood.
My tongue tastes
the bitter vinegar of loneliness.

The cool spackle on white drywall
feels like diagrams
under my fingertips
that map my biology—
Pelvic.
Bowls and floors.
I can no longer eat.
My stomach shrivels acidic and dark.

These sockets are empty.
This coupling of bone
on a hinge has grown hard.

Two moving planes that
meet in one place—breaking.