Bone Ash

I found it
disturbing at first.
The idea of someone’s fine
china being scraped by forks and knives,
being used for sustenance. There is no evidence
that we are composed of other beings—that we are
eating to stay alive. We use the bones and the fat
and the carbon and we leave no graveyards. We
are at the mercy of curtains—hiding behind human
skin. And then I think of the bones placed in my body.
The cadaver—I wish I knew whose bones keep my
spine standing. I wish I know when I lie down to sleep
whose bones are structuring the dreams,
giving shape
to my reality.


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