1000 years from now
when they find my delicate
laced up corpse—
my femur will whisper
Anthropologists will murmur
Twenty First Century American Woman
See how small
She was? She lived in a wall.
I am made of a whimper starting in my knee
underneath the patella,
wrapped around the anterior cruciate,
tucked in cartilage
that shoots up the femur.
the femur is the strongest
bone in the body—on average,
26.74% of a person’s height.
Did you know
In these bulbous pieces of marrow and calcium are my needs.
These masticated, dog eaten bones carry me—
hold up my pubis, my vagina, sloping handles of my waist,
xylophone ri-i-i-ibs, and all-too-often aching chest.
These staves propel water, skate fields, and tread deserts
These brilliant bones swing over branches, scratching their
fat-mother thighs and leaving them breathless
and beaten raw
My femur carried my nine-year-old body through the Eagle Creek, like all
little girls. They told me to swim
by a shirt, let my breastless torso free—
(that little girl
has nothing on, see how happy
in the wa
ter with the lit
I shaved my legs at 13. Somehow
vulnerable tibias gave orders:
cut us with branches or smother us with scum!
bruises or hair
But the femur, brilliant blessed bone, was silent.
It loved me. It loved me for a long time.