This is my knee
It creaks
when it bends
like the old willow tree
by the house
we lived in
when we were kids
This is my stomach
It is never full
never sated
bulging outward
like a baby
waiting
to be born
These are my arms
They twist
in odd directions
like roots starved of water
They lift less
than they used to
which is to say
nothing at all
This is my face
It was cut
from old leather
and laced together
with sinew
Lines map
where I’ve been
and what I lost
along the way
These are my eyes
they do not see you
they are looking elsewhere
they are closing even as we speak
slipping into darkness
the half-moon shadows
that appeared
in the mirror
on a morning
long ago.