Marrow; Sarah Bruce

Sarah Bruce

Marrow

Your river-worn ankles bind me beneath a sand-dipped ceiling of shadows, knotted by sailors. As if it were written on my chest, your name spills out, dripping from my toes, left to dry in the sun. New skin cracks over knuckle joints as your naked fingers stumble home, and reams of paper fill my head –our sweet rocks and brittle wood, our string and breadcrumbs, swallows in the night.