Wrapped in Velvet

Thick with red eyes glowing,
night descends into the house,
100,000 billion galaxies

expanding and spiraling above.
Alone, does fear always seep
into the thick soles of our feet?

Sometimes an unfinished crossword
left in a chair, a sweater
draped over the arm

reminds me of your absence.
I’ve been taking walks,
hunting for small treasures,

surrendering to mystery’s seduction –
water carves into stone,
roots branch out like veins,

unearthed bones
piece together histories.
How many have a tooth saved,

wrapped in velvet, buried
in the back of a drawer?
I keep the hand-like bones

of a flipper found in the sand.
The bones of our hands
are particularly complicated,

especially the fingers –
what we cannot hold
and what we can.

Skin

Skin:
  (1) Snakes shed it in the woodpile
  (2) A mummy's is more brittle than ancient
        parchment
  (3) If cut with the jagged edge of a mirror
       it confines you to psyche ward
  (4) It stabilizes the body’s temperature

You can only sense the blood
coursing underneath –
you can’t peel back
the layers and dive in.
     Touch the surface –
the pores, moles, the occasional hard
scars that hint at ancient entrances -
the belly-button that spirals inward,
scars of childhood mosquito bites
scratched to scabs and picked,
small bloodlettings.

Beyond the surface
    (sweaty, powdered, tan, light, dark,
    freckled, wrinkled, smooth, sagging,
    lifted, dry, oily, oiled, shaved, plucked,
    stitched, tattooed, pierced, bruised)
feel
the swell of belly, the cut
and reconstructed right breast
the sharp bone
that rages underneath.
Move your hand slowly.