My ribcage
frays in midst of must in my chest —
a cracked window circulates its hollowness.

Bits of bone fringe,
tassels strung loose in the draft
like strings at the neckline
of dad’s old Super Bowl sweater
he gifted to me, once
folded perfectly with pride,

and now it hangs shamefaced,
fraying by my bedside.

I feel memories of his arms
through these sleeves
and I think again of my chest —
stale wind fraying bits of bone, fringed.

Toothpick ribs bend, shamefaced
like the aging pine tree
casting shadows against
dad’s bedroom window.