Third Rib

She says, you have a light touch

and I guess she’s right, maybe too light

I always admire the feel to a feather

opposed to the rough of a stone;

She says, you always whisper, never speak

and of course she’s right,

but the last time I let my voice rise to a rumble

it shook all my walls down, sheetrock can

crumble to a thin white powder

through the shout of my words

as trumpets outside Jericho;

She says, you need to be alone

and she’s right, she’s right

I need to rid myself of my third rib

the bone of contention;

She says, you always write

but I am alone, as noted

shedding myself of bones

and the only way to get them out

is to describe them