Counter Bone

Waiting for the kettle, a thin wail

starting to rise. I leaned in close,

hip against the worn wood, a soft complain.

My wrist, though, found the cold steel edge

of the counter, hard and sharp.

A sudden peak, a knob of bone,

just there beneath the skin. Not just

a hand, but frame. What holds the meat,

the pulsing rivers, tight and neat.

I felt the pressure, a small, distinct ache,

and pulled away, for goodness sake.

It gleamed, almost, in the weak light,

that tiny mountain, stark and white

under a thin, pale patch of skin.

A reminder of what we are within.

Just bone. Just structure. Waiting for a break.