Bone Confession

Bone Confession 

There are veins
in my wrist
that pulse
whenever I
think of the names
of the dead.

Something greater
than blood
that wants to rearrange
my bones
with every
whisper.

Blood and bone
trying to write
my name
into their ledger.

I keep a memory urn
in my brain
and feed it a relic
every time they
chant:

pink ribbons,
Mardi Gras beads,
thimbles full of ashes,
crumbled blessings,
grief poems—

for the ones
I could not save.

In my dreams
I feel its clay rattle
against my chest
with every step.

Their things
slow me down,
trying to match
their stride.

Yet every day
I wake
feeling my pulse
pounding out
its gratitude,

my teeth thankful
to speak
a living language.

my fingers leave fingerprints.

that I am an echo
that can leave the room.