Bone Appendix
After Alexandra Petrova
Trace your son’s left hand
against construction paper
with a nontoxic marker,
teaching him the edges
of his bones. Then fill
the space between
with what shines
or powders, glitter,
crushed cheerios, flecks
of skin even, teaching him
his bones remain
in spite of it. Let him try
to fit his fingers in the contours,
teaching him his bones
keep growing. And when
he makes two fists, afraid
his body can’t keep up
with what’s inside, clenching
hard as teeth to keep his bones
just as they are, to keep them
from sprouting out, tell him
of Ukraine’s oldest apple tree
that grows its branches
low into the ground
until they drink the soil—
an indiscernible colony
of roots or eternally new trees.
And when he falls
asleep pressed to your chest,
trace his right hand
against the tree-house
rib cage it first grew, teaching him
the endlessness of bones.
