The bones she picks are his bones

her beak finding the brittle whites,
inhaling camphor of his skin, the incensed
emanations from within.  
The strewn unstitched parts
she has rearranged to her liking
in a nest of alabaster
leached to limestone’s hues.

The filtered light dapples
the dug grave of his unearthings —
she takes what’s become of him —
the worms, her dinner —
down to the very dust

she takes and he takes it
(a small mouth-cornered smile) —

see there, buried beyond sight,
the one that got away
the lone heart,
unheld, uneaten, is now
filling with its own fat pulse

About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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