i miss you in the seventh vertebrae of my thoracic spine,
which it’s no surprise to find, is nothing but the center—
with shock-white angles and the harsh-red woman tartar
of muscle and nerve clinging to it, spongy, and through it.
is it any surprise that my ache for you is not in the soft spot
of barely protruding adipose between my naval and pelvis?
that it’s not below my sternum, between my breasts,
in a cavity filled with organs and to-do lists?
that it’s in a hollow circle-spike amidst the base
of my scapulas, filled with the intangibles,
not the place that feels like center—the place that is,
with the brittleness, the permanence, of sharp-stabbed bone?