“Diagnosis”

‘But I am all bones’,
I tell the urgency
which is now shaped like a doctor
and smells of celluloid,
salt, long stale coffee.

We sit and get cordial
with talk of vacations
and how suitcases can take us
all the way away,
someplace, room one over

that is this room,
only bigger and fractured
as if three dark spots
inverted, decorated,
made beds while playing house.

I swear immovable:
the lung, a collection of bags
and blood lumped and expanding
to expose vanity, storm window,
interior door

and a single breath,
the crispness a bone sounds
when it exposes within
ragged jags, membrane,
trapped air.

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