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.