Body of Work
Your body brought elation till it was
ready for cremation. All that remains
returned to me, rattling rectangular
plastic box of you, your skin
and muscle ashes, but bony bits
intact. I play bones with your knuckles,
knuckles with your bones. Your
metacarpus once fingered and stroked;
your coccyx that perched on velvet thrones;
your maxilla that smiled so sweet;
all hard and gritty chunks, now, dispersed
amongst the kitty litter of your ashes, babe.
Segments of scapula can be discerned
and your hyoid and lachrymal bones, that worked
so hard to cause and shed so many tears.
But your feet, your metatarsus and
astragalus that leapt, crept and flew
improbably, delighting with the stretching
of what bodies can do, all reduced
to rubble now. I rattle your deconstructed
carcass in your blockish, plastic casket.