Beautiful Bones

My collarbone
is comforting. During class,
my fingers and hands glide
along the shelf, sometimes pushing,
kneading. I like the stone
feeling, a warm rock during the summer.

It feels alive, makes me alive.
I can't be broken. For all
the tearless nights, sonorous,
mournful grunts, I will remain.
I will stand.
Even when I am overflowing, the dam
will hold. It's what I was made
for. The skin
over my collarbone is soft,
almost as soft as the baby blankets
I bought for my cousins when they were born.

My baby blanket saw a decade
of me, held together for ten years
before there was barely
anything left. Fabric
doesn't react well to blood, puke, countless
washings and warm tumblings
amongst socks and boxers. But living bone
doesn't fade or disintigrate. It breathes
and builds and barracades, pushing
to survive while everything else is falling
apart. It fights
to keep itself together.

Collarbones don't shrink
at marble eyes, lost dreams,
bad calls. They just stay still
and work
on keeping themselves strong until
April rains come, those songs
play on the radio
and someone else's hands
do the pushing and kneading
as your fingers glide along their jawbone
in awe. The moutain, streams,
trees, sunlight. The secrets.

My body holds
them all as reminders.
Life is beautiful
and my collarbone comforts
me.