My Daughter Brings Home Bones

and piles them on the driveway: femur, rib, jawbone with a few flat teeth attached, dozens of thin arced parts. This one for me—40 today. My birthday sent her to the woods and back. Chloe leans in on her knees, arranges the bones along a concrete seam that leads out to the street. In this next decade, she'll go: head off like today, take into her arms all she's curious about. Her line of bones makes an arrow; sun lights them like a sign. She'll go: undeniable as these bones, baffling as what animal they'd make. She's on all fours. The way I labored: some wild thing. She lays out arms and legs; the bones in line make a spine. My height. On the driveway lies my body —when it held her—inside out. The way she came: like bones. Gleaming, after living in my dark. Gleaming. So I can always find her.