renaming bones

the forearm is full of pistil.
not gun but gone. a mouth full of hurry.
five new kinds of salsa in the sunrise.
my feet full of gumballs & come on come on.
more than enough match box cars.
the banister you held to make your way
down to hell. i hear they have
a washing machine who will sing you to sleep.
legs full of siren & syringe. an ambulance 
is my brother & he goes back & forth
full of blood. we could eat outside
even though it's raining. we could
wash out skulls out like mugs. i want to call
a rib a jaw harp. want to played & fingered.
call me communal & calliope. no use
in sleeping when the bouncey ball
still has so much farther to go.
looking at the x-rays i get what they mean.
i am terribly ordinary when it comes down
to the scaffolding. they point my pelvis & say
"what should we call this?" i say "cutting board"
without a single thought. i used to love
a bone collector. he grinned & showed me
the closet where he kept them. 
each wraped in silk. "this one is from
a boy i kissed in a corn field" &
"this one is from the jaw of 
a terrible chef." i should have asked
to touch them but instead i asked 
which one he'd want of mine. gave him
a single tooth & i feel him sometimes
chewing with it. we all find ways
to make use of each other. i removed
one of your ribs without telling you.
you had so many. you didn't need it.
when i see it in the bottom of my backpack
i do not call it "rib." i say
"hello waning moon, i am here."