Etruscan Bones

Yesterday
I saw a girl
who had your bones.
She had her hair
in loose retro braids
like you wore
in ’84.
I watched her laughter
‘cross the bar.
I had to leave
my drink unfinished.

Remember when
we hired that cab
to take us
from Malacca
to Singapore?
The driver spoke some English
so we whispered in pig Latin.
When he asked where we were from
you grinned and lied
with sham pride
“We are Etruscan.”
He smiled and claimed he often
had people from Etrusca
in his cab.

You slept most the way
your head upon my lap.
As I watched
the regimental rows
of rubber trees march past
I let my fingers trace
the line your collarbone
made across the curve
from throat to breast.

She had the same line ‘neath her sweater.
Her cheek bones high like yours
but the nose was wrong.

Those days spent in Penang
on rubber time
with shutters closed against the sun
but beams of light
got through the cracks
stirred up the dust
and fell in lines
across your skin.
Your bones beneath the skin
bent those lines of sunlight
into sweat-stained hieroglyphs
that danced with every breath.
If I but knew the code
I could have read your bones
like poetry.

Sophia told me
after her last visit
that your daughter
now in college
had your bones.
The thought that
neither time nor Death
could defeat good bones
made me smile.