Nick Bruno


In a world of perfect bones,
there is no room for hairline fractures,
hip replacements or herniated disks.
Prostheses are nonexistent; bones
do not snap like bread sticks
or wear down like soapstone.

My mother can still squeeze my hand
till my knuckles run white and our thumbs
become one. She does not fixate on yellow
biohazards or aluminum walkers. She studies
how long the water will take
to course through irrigation ditches.

In a world of perfect bones,
long after cicadas turn silent
and the calabrian heat subsides,
my mother walks about
on that five foot high retaining wall
that separates her from her garden.

Location: Quebec, Canada
Publications: Adirondack Review, Stirring, Snow Monkey, Sidereality, Thunder Sandwich, Verse Libre Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Electric Acorn, Unlikely Stories, Poetry

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