Bone Appendix

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.