We are brutal to each other, not because of anything
we’ve done in the past, but simply as static. 

We sit nibbling on saltine crackers and drinking 
our blue black tea. The people around us are even worse, 

squawking like birds and dropping their feathers 
in a bird dance that catches my throat. 

“You look so vulnerable,” I say, showing him the photo.
“I thought that was what you wanted,” he says. 

“For the exhibition, I’m going to name this one, Papa
can you hear me?” 

I sing this to him and watch the words drop into his tea.
But he refuses— “Are those animal bones?” he asks. 

I look down and there are small piles of bones around my feet.
Some are thick and look like femurs. Others are thin,
attached to one another like a ribcage. 

“What is this?” I ask quickly. 

But the question brushes off his shoulders and I realize
he’s not going to forgive me, the way I pushed him into small ruins. 

The truth is, I know why there are animal bones around my feet,
but we eat our lunch, the clouds are low.