I always had an affinity for bones.
Unbending, able to hold up the weight of lives,
bodies,
souls.
Supportive, yet thankless, with little to show for it
but stress marks and fractures.
The occasional splash of calcium to
feign appreciation and sustain them.
At least until the flesh gives in to the parasitic bites of time,
Forgotten among skeletal strangers until they snap
or are exhumed.
I always wanted to be a bone.
Or perhaps it terrified me that it is my fate.
To be defined only by the context
made by those around me.
Excavating them from the landscape of their peers became a hobby.
I considered making a career out of it for a time,
but, well,
they try so hard to be the dirt,
you end up chipping right through them,
giving what little they have left to the flesh that feeds
off their surroundings.
And since they prefer to be dirt anyway,
putting them back together only
amplifies the guilt.
A futile puzzle against nature.
Identifying their remains only unites them
in mortal solidarity
with the dirt they beg to be.
Tarnished crystal skulls
impaired by the liquid brains
they once sheltered from birth.
I chose finally to polish those cherished bones
found by others,
pulled from the earth by reverent force.
A bone in denial,
polishing other bones,
posing ourselves to fit the mold
of newly defined flesh
in the open air.
Bent and rebirthed against will,
finally celebrated
with nothing left to show.
This was poem 1 for National Poetry Month, April 1, 2020.
