hip bone 

they took photographs 
of my bones with a polaroid camera,
the doctor took a moment
waving the picture so that 
it would develop. 
caution radiation.
he showed the image to me:
a view of a glacier melting.
we watched, white rock cracking,
dropping bone 
into the black ocean 
are my bones
made of ice? 
i asked even though
i already knew they were.

i don't want to
know how much time i have left,
that is an answer only for salt.

the process of melting
involves pocket knives 
stuck in thighs &
elegies to each fragment.
will you stay with me
as a witness?
 
the sea levels rise 
in me & i spit out salt
water on the street
with bits of ice or teeth.

at home you keep me company
& we look up projection images 
of Long Island when the whole
planet is 4 degrees warmer.

we point to all the streets
that will be underwater,
but, at least our street
will still be safe, 
possibly a waterfront.

we'll put our fishing poles
out the windows & catch
ice burgs.

now, i pin the photograph
above my desk &
there's only an image
of a bone:
black background.

the ear of a monster 
a broken sculpture
a mound of salt.

sea water comes
into our bedroom, soaking
the wood floor. you're
asleep so i don't tell you,

i wade in deeper,
amble down the street,
water up to my waist.