When the doctor holds my upper arm in his two hands,

he bows his head and listens as if he were waiting to hear

the song of a rare endemic bird no one has seen for centuries.

I start to speak, but he shakes his head, does not loosen his grip

on my arm, turns his fingers around the curve

of my skin and listens again.

I am afraid to clear my throat. My toes stay still.

He must hear my heart where it beats

but he is listening to the sound of bones

the way NASA turns its telescopes far over our heads on Mauna Kea

and hears the universe move.
Rain falls so hard on the roof, I think it might break through.

Imagine all those luminous drops that had been the backbone

of a cloud shattered and lying above the orthopedic surgeon’s head and mine. Soon a puddle, then a trickle into the Wailuku River.

This will mend well, he says, shows me two x-rays.

In the waiting room is a large salt water tank. A zebra moray eel

folds in one corner its brown and white stripes.

I think how it must have no bones at all

or bones so light this eel can wind

around its heaven all night when everyone has left

and dream the dream of breaking into the world.
Joan Swift died on March 13, at age 90. In arrangement with Cave Moon Press, we've named her our April Poet in Residence, and are running four poems from her this month, all from the upcoming book The Body that Follows Us.