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Incarnate 

Rachel Logan Snyder

Every night the neighbors upstairs drop it,
this low metallic plink, uneven roll
grooved across the hardwood floor.
With each fall its weight thickens

so I wait to hear it furrow
through my ceiling,
plummet straight into my rib cage
leaving a hollow in its wake.

It will slink down all
eight flights, gaining shape;
splintering bits of bone and concrete,
pickling dust along its way.

And when it reaches the bottom
full now, having shattered
through enough fragment
to become whole,

will it rejoice, or regret the view lost
of the river through the window?