cyan sky matted with thoughts of drinking

cordial from the corners of your limbs pooling

in the flesh of your clavicle hammock i rest

and ask what a child’s limbs are made for if not to be broken

perhaps to bend into shape a crowbar or hammer

used to hammer mother’s clavicle to the mantel and kiss her

metatarsal bones before resting 

in a hammock under God i will sleep 

under blankets made of a torn woman’s muscle stitched 

filaments fingering the webbing of my toes like a violin 

stringing to the drum of cordial dripping on hardwood 

floors of my rib cage corridor i sleep

and dream of steel crowbars and cordial sweet.