It runs in some families
this stiffening, in the early forties,
around the knee, the need
to invest more effort
in the flexion of thumb
and maybe the more attentive
hear a wind blowing
through the card palace
of their bones – a premonition
of the crumble
of resolve and calcium
and fortitude that some call
ageing. And so they pull in their limbs
like ancient drawbridges,
watch roaring desires sputter
into gentler static
though there were always other ways to get here.
When the heart’s sludgy tributaries
grow dry,
trust the bones.
Their dry winter wisdom
will not deceive you
for in their white chalk quarry
lies something truer
than any of the fruity varieties of love
you have known.
One day the fingers will uncurl again,
the nostrils twitch, eyes widen
and the body will return to what it’s always been –
old antenna,
tuned promiscuously
springward.
But even then,
remember,
try to remember
the bones.