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Aaron Anstett

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

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