The Arms and Legs of a Birdcage

The Arms and Legs of a Birdcage

I sewed closed
the sleeves of his sweaters,
cooked oatmeal by the barrel.
He smelled like pine needles,
the sap of felled trees, the space
where his arms once were
was a needle browned swamp of
dry nude birds, bumped breasts lolling
over ribcages, wingless
in the spongy feathering grass.

With no legs
his buttocks curved like a knucklebone.
When we lay together,
my thighs fit in the slots under his ribs.
When I held the stumped end bone
I was his forearm, my thoughts
his fingers and wingtips.