Sandy Longhorn
At night the doctors scoop
the marrow from my bones
with little spoons.
They map the hollowed spaces
and leave a trail
of brightly colored yarn.
The hands that hold me down
belong to a woman
I once called mother
by mistake.
The womb is a dark
and holy place.
Still, a scalpel on the skin
threatens whatever lies
beneath it unprotected.
The needle and the twine implant a scar,
christen this body
mended if not whole.