smooth as subterranean bones, safe from sunlight, methodically cleansed by nightcrawling friends
almost untouched– almost, darling, there’s an imprint
there, on your collar, from a thumb.
there’s lines on your wrists that remember a dead grip
from the man who ran away with your father’s gun
you cornered the king and checked him with your pawn,
and though your fingers have oft felt the little cross between them
you’ve never felt like you've won
you know that the green fields rolling on in all directions
were once blue underwater,
once red and black and on fire
and you carry that close to your skin
which was once cellular crimson, murky, multifarious,
what a miracle it was to leave as a denizen of yourself
so easily you could’ve become a clot, a knot, a mass of blood, toxic shock
reabsorbed or expelled from the old red of Ahab’s vengeful mouth
You’ll never forgive either of them, I know, not the bodies that were once homes and not your own
wagging your fingers at your own cells for trading flesh for bones
the sheer mass of it, the upkeep, worth double its weight in gold, how heavy- how useless
for all but conductors and crosses, dearest, no matter how rare your eyes or hair or smile
no matter how preciously formed- you are only bright and shining
and the whole world is full of crows
