Torso No. 3 (Curved Spine)

It could be a fish, fleshless

but swerving through some sea

with bones for fins, or feathers—

a bird, white, shooting up

from its nest toward the wet

sky, the sickle moon,

the long night curving into

morning, the way my own bones

curve, the line of my spine

straight as the lid of an eye,

your eyes as I bend to show

you the slight push against one

side and you tell me about how

the vertebrae could be shingles

on a roof, but in my case

it's a crooked roof, and as

your fingers climb, I imagine

the perch of something small

there, ready to glide into blue.