When I was a child, I came undone,
legs buckled beneath me. Weak ligaments,
the doctor said. So I wrapped my knees in
Ace bandages, held myself together
with elastic & metal clips. On a
gymnasium’s polished maple floor, a
schoolyard’s hopscotch-chalked asphalt. Every day,
I walked through sun. And I don’t know where this
all ends up, but I’ve always been breaking
apart. Last night, in bed, I shifted, &
my bones pulled away from me—tibia,
femur slipped from their place, drew my flesh toward
something else, but what? And I lay there, still,
small animal breathing against the dark.