Rehearsel

I found a bone in the yard last week
that fit my hand too well.

I told myself: coincidence.
I told myself: the world is full
of things shaped like us
that aren't.

But the bone knew my grip.
The bone remembered
the way I hold a glass,
the way I hold a pen,
the way I hold nothing at all
when I've given up for the night.

There's a date on it
I don't want to read.
The numbers are mine -
the handwriting I'll have
when my hand is steadier,
when my hand is done.

I put it back.

The ground took it
like it had been waiting,
like it was just checking
to see if I was ready.

I'm not ready.
But the dirt doesn't ask.
The dirt has been practicing
this scene without me,
getting the blocking right,
learning my shape
so when I finally arrive
the fit will be perfect.

I dreamed last night
I was lying down
in a hole that already knew me -
the walls curved
where my shoulders curve,
the depth exact,
the silence rehearsed.

I woke up and checked the yard.
The bone was gone.

Or it was never there.

Or it's waiting
for the date to match,
for the rehearsal to end,
for the opening night
I can't refuse.

I poured my coffee this morning.
The cup fit my hand too well.

Everything fits now.

That's how I know.