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Bones

(from, The Bones of His Being)

His skin gleams in the watery light, taut

along his chin, the knobbed hinge of jaw.

Cheeks and temples sunk to nothing.

“Doesn’t he have beautiful bones?”

my mother says, quietly, so as not to wake him,

and I think she must mean more than cheekbones

and brow – must mean the bones

of his being, seen clear through the love

and stubborn burrs tangled in their marriage.

I think she is fixing this in memory.

Sun spills reflections on the tiled floor,

a wide lake. She is far from me,

on the distant shore.