Halfway North

Something about

seeing your skull

in black and white and

pulled nonchalantly

from the manila folder

makes me feel loose inside

as though all of my bones

have let go of each other

for the moment, and are

floating around unmoored

in my limbs,

my chest.

The skull is death, it’s

for pirates, and archaeologists,

and murderers, and a universal

sign of danger that is, or was –

so seeing yours laid out flat:

your teeth, the space for your nose,

the holes for your bright blue eyes

without the benefit of your face –

is like being dragged

just decades into the future,

where none of us need braces,

or toothpaste, or manila folders,

or excuses for missing school,

or one another.