By Katie Frazier
Beneath the surface—
Bones:
The hardened spine of hope that holds her up,
Stiff between sagging shoulders;
His rigid god, where childhood faith fastened strings of scarlet muscle,
Birthing motions terrible and great;
Boyish idealism too bright for this world
Blooming on your knuckles, raw with fighting,
White with fear;
The drive to be remembered lifting my jaw upward
Although my finger bones are small,
Easily broken,
I know.
When life decays our softer selves,
These bones remain.
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