sunday morning in the pulmonary ward

i see the holes in him:
the spots where tubes dangle from skin
like leeches.
he smells like water that has nowhere
to go. the medicine doesn’t allow him
to smile, so when he flashes his teeth
i know it must be bad.
his chest begins to leak
the color of black cherries.

bone from bone

i know his hands
love me. i can see
it in knuckle crease,
soft underbelly
of his wrists, how he
shakes out his joints like
one would force dust
from carpet.

when i am unsure
at what angle a finger breaks,
i ask if he will fracture
one of mine. a clean
separation of bone
from bone.
he does.