I have needlessly complicated the presence of a bone.
I am at a loss, the dogs are confused, and the tightly knit social fabric of my ribs appears disrupted.
In the dirt before me, certain as I stand, the bone.
I know that if I found it, it must have secretly come from me.
But why the wind this March morning, growling as if not quite through biting me with winter?
Hasn’t it chewed us enough, and are we not better for staying three months indoors?
I have retreated and hermit-sat.
I have investigated the great migrations of the musk ox, the exasperated bees that ride the spiny crags of the long intestine and get shit out, buzzing, months from their home.
I am not trying to say that’s how I feel.
I am not convinced I have come without a purpose.
Still, the constant, the marrow mewling from within, asking for milk words this time to scrawl away the loss.
Even the dogs are confused when I hand them the bone and—patting them—confide, There, there—there is more, there will be more.