Bone
Dawn Levitt

I am bone.
Thin, white, light
limned along the edge
of the razor’s blade.
All excess fat
trimmed away
by the butcher’s knife,
this butcher – life.
I bleed no more –
bone is dry.
Tears have no echo
for the bone.
My edge is as sharp
and harsh as
a lover’s tongue
in the winter months.
Bone is cold,
splinters brittle
like bitten ice
to cut the lip,
but gives no succor
of melted water.