Shame I can’t treasure my skeleton, prop it and toss glitter on it, lift it and dance around with it. Shucks that I can’t show it off, each bone there’s a name for, my expensive acquisition. I’d pose it in positions, Washington crossing the Delaware, Mussolini head-tilt, with scraps of newsprint in the eye sockets and rags in the cranium. A red paper heart to hang in the rib cage. Gosh-darn that I can’t see it outside of me, my lily-white hinges, ankles and scary bare knuckles. I’d hoist it off the front porch in high winds, unnerve neighbors when it clatters.
Aaron Anstett Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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