Ronda Piszk Broatch

I TAKE MY UNLOVED HIPBONE TO BED
- for M. S.

but my dreams are a wasteland,
waterless and unripe.

Because I’ve ceased writing letters
to the apocalypse,

all my sorrows wilt in pots by the door.
If my brain lived outside my body,

I’d observe my misbehaviors,
choosing the ones I like best.

My hipbone’s got no color in moonlight.
My dreams have all been censored.

The woman who answers my phone mis-
pronounces every announcement.

I will donate my heart
when it is ripe enough.

I’ll volunteer my good foot,
the graffiti of my second decade,

the reason blood pools beneath skin.
Because I’ve stopped planning my death

my jilted spine crumples under burden
of a young century. I take my sleepy dreams

up the steep stairs, my hipbone swaying
to music of an unanswered phone.