vessels

Inches from the sterile charnel heap lodged
in crowded suitcase tombs beneath my bed,
I half-slept beside you.
Inches from your heart.
Time beat a worried path through bone,
Yet sometimes, in your arms, I felt almost loved.

By day the waxen femur in my hand left yellow
stains - death reduced to pollen in my palm.
I studied grains and lines,
breathed warm on them
as if life's echo might recall a memory,
a moment when another’s hand touched thigh.

With sorrow's heavy head resting on soft ribs
I wonder how alike are bones and blood,
hollow vessels drifting
in slow dreaming marrow,
and I, sad daughter, mourning relics of a
time when it was your turn to feel almost loved.

*image: Jean-Paul Avisse