Your skin is stretched over your back,
thin as air mail paper,
lined with bones where, I imagine,
disease ate away all flesh.
You turn with your family
to exit the playground,
I see this frgile outline of your skeleton-
the bumps of your vertebre intersect
your shoulder bones and blades.
I want to write on those thin lines
how beautiful you are,
how well loved you look as little one
takes your hand.
Elegant caligraphy painted with a brush
not much thicker than your wrist.
We never met.
Silently we slip our separate ways.
I imagine how inappropriate
a stranger’s comment
on the purity of your complexion,
how your pale, hairless head
and lack of eyebrows make you seem ethereal