Bones

I stare at my cadaver in the mirror,

The skin is pale and tight around my bones;

My cheeks are shadows, and a single tear

Hangs on my eye, then drops on my beak nose.

I lie down on my bed, and trace my sharp 

Ribs that are jutting out like dead bloodhounds

In a dry lake; and I wander over dark 

Moles that are memories of past death wounds.

I fear that I stand out, for my forehead 

Is of a waxing gibbous, teeth are jagged

Mountain peaks, and I’m afraid what’s said

Behind my back, for words will surely damage.

Yet when you dig me up along this poem,

If all this is true, there is no way you’d know it.