January a shop window

January, a shop window,

and there it was—

the collarbone, high and sharp,

more bone than body,

architectural.

I didn't recognize it as mine

for a full second.

Two weeks ago at Christmas dinner

my aunt pressed two fingers to it

without asking,

like she was checking the ripeness of something.

You look thin.

Not a question.

The bread basket moved around the table.

The scarf sits wrong there now.

I pull it up and it slides

and I pull it up again.

The hollow above the ridge—

January goes straight to it.

Settles.

Doesn't leave.