Good Bones
My wife once broke my right second metacarpal
with a golf club.
She bogeyed the hole,
but I added a two-shot penalty.
We honeymooned on a cruise liner
to Saint Croix,
embracing on the party deck,
and no matter how secure the bandage,
I couldn't hold her
without feeling the fissure
in my bones
where she still lives.
poem by Robert Foxweed
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