Osteoporosis Ghazal

Inside of me, my bones are white and porous as curdled milk.
I imagine them into pulp: soft like yogurt, then puddling like milk.

Call me brittle boned, fracture risk, calcium deficient, the skeleton
aging within me: an eighty year old woman asking for a cup of milk.

My grandma always liked ice in her glass, now her eyes
are clouded with age, like watery melt in her supper milk.

As a child, I loved fragile things, imagined fairies, doily thin
lace wings, left them gifts on my windowsill: glass buttons, a thimble of milk.

Across from me, my innermost fear. The mug on the table reminds me
of myself: hairline fracture across its midline, out seeps the milk.

In the supermarket I am surrounded by so many cures, it is too late.
I have asked myself a million times why I did not drink the milk.