spineless by hil hoover

Spineless, they called me. 

A wimp. A sissy. 

Unable to hold my own in a world

where playgrounds are battlefields 

and workplaces are battlefields

and even our hobbies so often

become gates to break down and 

spaces where we're told we 

don't belong. 

Spineless. Boneless. 

Flimsy. Floppy. 

A collection of meat and fat 

masquerading as a man. 

I have so many spines these days, 

though. And the jawbones that 

made the insults possible

and the knuckles that bruised my face. 

They don't say anything at all

these days 

but their bones rattle, 

snap so satisfyingly,

provide marrow and 

meal and broth. 

And I cast the bones 

every night 

read them like a romance 

fingertips lingering on each

piece as I contemplate 

if I have enough spine yet.