My son points out that my skin looks old,
that it’s made of tiny triangles.
It’s not criticism,
not compliment,
said with an air of almost-worry…
I gather fallen limbs,
handle lichened bones
with reverence,
returning them
to the base of their tree.
Sleepless elbows and knees find my hip,
shin, and the tender bone under my eye,
my body remembering a knot of child
kneading my bladder, stealing my breath,
stamping footprints on my belly…