Bone Hold

It was my turn.

I walked up behind you
speaking with soft and even sounds,
as you would
to a spooked horse,
tones and volumes
that wouldn’t cut your ears.

You heard consonants better now,
they said.
Speak loudly,
they said.
Kei-ra,
I crooned
rolling your name over and under my tongue,
soothing your sore bones with saliva and sound.

Kei-ra,
leading my cold sweaty hand
to grip the base of your
bent neck,

freeing your brother
to finally walk away,
even look away.

I shifted my fingers with fear,
careful to always be touching
some part of your ashen skin,
thin as moth wings
and smelling of rot.

It hurt you to shower,
you told me.
The water stung your skin and felt
like that time
we were caught in hail.

We sat so still and silent, that
we heard your mother
chain smoking on the deck
before we smelt it.

click, whoosh, suck, exhale

Then the acrid smell that made you
roll your eyes
and remind her,
your lungs were nearly gone.

I felt drained,
like they said I should,
They said:
Our energy could make her well!

And whatever we did,

NOT to let go.

You called them hacks
and, as if to prove a point,
promptly hacked up what looked like
a bit of lung.

I kissed your brow
as your mother slid her hard hand
under mine.

I kissed you hard,
to taste the sweat
that had crusted into sugar there.

I kissed you for so long
that you flinched away from us

and for a moment –
no hands held you here at all.