I’m scared of being too weird. Of prying open 

the mouth of my poem only to find

a bunch of skeletons crowding the belly—

but not a carefully curated batch, not the normal

skeletons, like the kind you’d find in a health classroom

or buried too deep in the ground to fully comprehend.

Instead, in the belly, it's the kind dressed in ugly orange

tuxedos. My skeletons listen to Britney Spears on YouTube Music.

They take selfies at the wax museum, and are training to become

marathon race walking mixed relay Olympic athletes.

My skeletons sometimes forget that they’re skeletons

and jolt when they see their reflections. My skeletons are afraid

of bees. I think my younger self has become a skeleton housed

in the belly of each poem I write. The person I was

one second ago is here, too—dressed in an orange suit,

learning how to administer CPR to the tune of “Stronger.”

The person I am becoming will show up, one day, soon.

I want each poem I write to become a body. That is to say,

I’m afraid of saying too much, but I’m more afraid of saying too little.

Of not opening my mouth wide enough for the skeletons

to be seen. I am tired of hiding the skeletons instead

of revealing them. That is to say, I've always wanted

to be a magician. So here’s a poem with a body shaped

like an x-ray; a magic trick with the steps numbered and circled

in tattoo ink. The skeletons are busy dancing away deep in the lines

of flesh, trying to remember themselves and simultaneously

forget. With the right words, I might even convince you

that they’re honest enough to love.