Secondhand Bones

Knit one, perl two.
Bones clicked on clack,
rejoined so this old skeleton
jumps out of the closet,
closes the door.

It's easier than expected,
this walking away
from the madness of words
strung through holes catgut taut.
Lacing what? Pearls?

They're rotten with disillusion.
Dissolution hangs leaden,
like pawning that necklace
mama gave me, draping grief
that wasn't even meant
for my neck.

I'm secondhand bones:
in her death,
in your marriage.

If it's not about love,
but loyalty, the flame burns
low, wilting like expectation
denied you

can embrace responsibility,
but it burns out. Truth,
unlike, love weighing cold as pearls
meant for someone else's bones.