These are the bones of loss
clacking against the window
as rain inundates roof and gutters,
pools into mud puddles
on grass, around trees, drowning flowers
and weeds in your front yard.
The bones tap and tap
like water dripping into the bent, hinged
arm of a metal drainpipe.
Open up, the bones chuff.
You lock the windows and doors.
Open wide, the bones cry.
You will not.
When the rain stops, you promise
to bury those bones
so deep they will never rise again.
You repeat this promise every time.
Still the bones return
to knock again and again
as though they are alive,
as though sorrow can’t be rejected
even if you refuse to accept it.