The Lament of the Bearded Lady
by Cathleen Delia Scarpitti

 

When I am gathering your bones — this is where
I will begin.
Not the spine — the knotted strand of pearls gritting in my teeth.
Not the pelvic bowl — where life begins
for saints and sinners both.
Not the jaw — the fine unrendering of your speech with one popped seam
— unravelled and undone —
Not the hallowed rib, though this is where God began —
taking from one to form the other
so that she always vaguely feels she owes him something.
Not the scapula wings — clipped the day we lost flight
and accepted our own inner gravity —
or the clavicle tightrope wire — spanning the shoulder
for the small-slippered, chain-smoking carnival girl I might have been.
But here,
this ether in the hollow of your dissected heart —
beating itself solid — beating itself into bone —
into a particle of sand —
with its fevered rememberings
and so many unspoken words.