Your Pictures

We used to hang your pictures here;
thick crayola trails, the paper curling
at the corners where you'd pressed
too hard. The way you drew feet,
countless waxy toes running
up the legs - no care for numbers
or bones: soft pink chainsaws bursting
from the waist, that was how you saw it.

Your pictures still surround the place,
though the drawings are folded, bent
and boxed with the crayons at the back
of the wardrobe. Now I trace the curve
of your bones across the room,
ribbonning smooth, silver and black.
The break in the tibia always too wide
to bear, I count the ribs on my way out,
my fingers too clumsy to colour the gaps