(no subject)

Bones

I am afraid to lie
in the ground alone.

Sometimes I think
of our bones in the dirt;
not bleached and clean,
but still smiling nonetheless.

Imperfect,

But perfectly suited,
as we so often are in life.

I suppose our hair
will cling to our scalps
like corn silk tassels,

Our nighttime whispering
will have given way to
creaking joints and cartilage.

Like everything else, I don’t
much like the thought of it

Without you.

Do you suppose there is a way
to mix our bones together?

I wouldn’t be afraid then
to lie quietly in the ground,
my braids and nails still growing.

It is an odd comfort

Knowing that my last act,
even buried in the earth,
could be reaching out to you.