the mice come 
to stack me,
33 vertebrae counted 
aloud as i wake
up next to you. 
it's a purple kind
of thing that 
another person's
body can make you
so much more aware
of your own. 
before bed i take 
each segment of
my spine out
& wash them in 
the kitchen sink
with the blue soap 
that smells
like thumb prints 
& lavender. 
my brother still
leaves Legos on 
the living room
floor even though
he's grown up
& moved away.
is his skeleton
colors & plastic 
like mine?
i hope he builds
biplanes with
the pieces. 
i assemble a miniature
house with
my bones &
i don't show you
or anyone. 
it's a little
gruesome, 
what with 
the rose petal marrow
holding it all
together. sometimes i
walk up your body 
like a staircase to 
an attic 
full of old toys.
tell me
what beanie baby
is eating
the flowers 
on the porch?
i suspect 
the ostrich.
do they have
spines like us?
yes, of course
& the snake is
all green & 
leads down to
the cellar. 
the mice are
good workers
but always hungry.
i kiss 
the bricks 
of your back.
tell me, 
love, are there
banisters in us?
is the attic 
full of boxes?
sore worry
stone pocket 
boy as i am.
those wooden
stairs down to
the shore 
will one day rot
from being
so close to 
salt & water. 
when i fall
apart i hope
it's into 
the Atlantic
or a tangle
of covers 
wrapped around
you. the mice
are good people,
let's trust them.
it's morning
anyway.