Father gave up eating. Decided instead if he fed
his soul flesh would condense and turn to bone.
Bone turns translucent. The house turns quiet.
Initials carved into dense walls
L.O. V.E. R.
When he left no one remembered his face.
The son was made entirely of flesh. He was a runner.
He hated to rely on bone. He ran and ran and ran.
When he stopped he became a firework.
Sparks that were his eyes left craters
on the sidewalk. We opened
the fire hydrant and washed him all up.
There was a woman
of softest flesh. At dusk
she would sit on the porch, rub shoulders
until skin bled and sun turned pink.
She gave of herself
Every morning I found her
closer to bone. There was nothing I would not do
for any of them.