This Old House

Hips creak and moan like the wood floor
they clatter against. Pangeaic forms,
tectonic shifts, I roll from left to right.
Your precious breath tides in and out.
I bear witness to your being, each
achy joint erodes slowly over time.

Your house once, these hips were
A-frame, your growing flesh crocheted
within. The time came, they unfurled
petals to push you down into the air.
Pain, the siren song. Creation turns
insides outward. Messy stuff, life.

The pain tethers me to your breath.
I lie here to remember.

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