human bones

i have gone on too many dates
in which all we talk about are bones.
once, a boy drove me inside his dream wagon
until we reached the edge of town.
he lived there in a feather house. 
a shovel leaned on the wall by the door 
& he picked it up. 
invited me to see where he went to dig. 
i sat on a folding chair while he told me
about how he broke his first bone by
punching a hole in the wall because
his brother had turned into a moth.
i felt scared of him. worried he was going to try
to bury me. i made up an excuse. scrambled
out of the house. he chased me
not like a horror movie but like 
a runaway dog. he wasn't the first
or the last boy. all the bones. the next with 
gravel lot for a tongue. the one after that,
all his ribs laid out on the counter.
he asked me to pick one to take with me.
i don't really believe in gender
but something i think a lot of men have in common
is they think to give means
to dismantle the self. no one wants 
your bones. at least, i do not. i want to see
what kind of dragon you build with them.
my favorite lover though he had used his bones
to make a windmill. femurs & fibulas.
we stood beneath it while the shadows kicked. 
"i want to love you," he said. i basked 
in his honesty. wondered then
about the difference between wanting 
& being. gender of course, the strange
city between nest & nightmare. 
of course i still have one of his ribs. 
i use it as a soup spoon though on most nights
i do not think of him.