Concert

This is where the famine stops;
our ribs are like tent poles
beneath translucent canopies of skin.
Bend us over.
Make us arch;
use our spines as glockenspiels,
take our shin bones for sticks
and hammer out arpeggios
across a nation of chalky marimbas;
the sun lifting
to the garish glory
of a million-chime symphony,
every morning
until the stars thud out
like light bulbs.