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.
Halfway North 