Osteoporosis

So many holes in the word,
it’s almost onomatopoeic
as if the porous bones
used the doctor’s mouth
as a ventriloquist’s doll.
Four ‘o’s in the diagnosis,
and many little voids in my hips.
My brain is forming a single
big “O” of surprise.
Have I not worked out?
Have I not pushed weights?
Why would my bones allow
these tiny, traitorous caves,
in which I sense the word “break”
lurking like an omen?
“Break” contains no “o,”
but I hear open groans of pain
echoing from the future.

I will still lift weights, but my eyes
scan the way ahead for bumps,
as if the tiny holes in my hips
are calling out for concrete
to rise up and meet them.

My mind dwells on the emphatic,
long-sounding “o” in old.

PS Cottier lives in Canberra, Australia, and has published six books of poetry, most recently Utterly (Ginninderra Press).  She is Poetry Editor at The Canberra Times, and also a book reviewer.  PS Cottier wrote a PhD on animals in the works of Charles Dickens, and is a keen, though lazy, birdwatcher.