The Metal Mile

At night the soft layers of her bed, her soft flesh
turn hard on the edge of crushed breath
numb to all but the weight of plastic
bound with straitjacket clasps
and hours spent sleepless.

Smooth walled, the thick brace
cuts into her thighs,
pressing in the outward S
of grey vertabrae curving
in gradual collapse.

After 18 months, rigid in the vice
the doctors note no difference
and pre-op in a paper gown
she scrubs the last trace of self
off with acetone
finding bones beneath.

The passage of the dying child
is mapped in scar
running straight between shoulder blades
then veering left where waist
grows wide and turns to hips,
a rough brown trail to mark
the metal mile of her spine.