Roadkill

I have seen the hollow bones you try to hide under long shirts and faded jeans. Your delicate spine, waiting for late wings to sprout, curving uncomfortably sharp when you bend to sit down. A forced unnatural angle. You are not meant to be so still.

Little by little, we are learning.  These little angelfish caught in your beak, even they are trying to fly. But I have seen your hollow bones, and  I know.  Eventually their delicacy will become brittle and snap, like a flightless bird under the tire of our old Ford.