It had died long ago, what the ribcage held together.
Breath, a set of poems (or places), or grandmother's name.
Or a story. Or secrets. The skull lacks the jawbone,
and grandmother, on the veranda,
Frail child of the war, is singing me my lullaby. "I
 have been a passing breeze,"
she starts, "through your hammock. Dream,
and breathe me in the dawn."
And the hammock is bearing her body
Like my hands on the skeleton. Like many windy evenings.
What could have forced her to sing, sing every night,
What could have held her. Was it bone?