My bones are rotten.

          My joints are as fragile as Russian tea cakes.

My hips, though, ohhhh-my-hips,

           my hips are titanium.

The surgeon prophesied: my hips will outlast the rest of me.

          He does not know my heart is blue granite.

I lose friends to money or love. I tell myself it’s not any weakness in me.

          I lose my husband. I tell myself I can do another day alone.

There are flecks the color of my husband’s eyes in the blue granite of his headstone.

          His heart was a worn-out bass drum.

I ached to watch my grandmother knead dough with gnarled hands.

          I have my grandmother’s thumbs now.

My hips, though, ohhhh-my-hips,

          my hips still remember the rhythm of a bass drum.

          My hips will remain silvery-grey.

          My heart will stay a slab of blue stone.