The bones of me will be taken
Out and washed
By a woman
Our wedding rings
On one hand
She will handle my skeleton gently
Soft hands on brittle bone
My skull will be washed first
With cool clear water.
My mouth will murmur
Sweet nothings
Jaw bones clacking
Loud and clear
Through the crisp air
Her fingers will handle the rest of my skeleton
Placing them in correct order
Laying them out to dry
She will piece me together
Saying I love you
As she works
My mandible will shake in response
Morse code that says
My father calls me Poppa, sometimes
It’s usually in the car
Sounds of the freeway filtering through our ears
He says Poppa and I listen without a word
Brain on fire and mouth dry
He doesn’t know the anxiety of it
The visceral cut of the word that will follow
What he thinks is correct
Poppa he says to me
And I always wish he would stay
With the word.
Allow it to define his child/son/daughter
Allow it to define me.
Your veins run bright
With liquid gold
Your holy hands
Mold your blessed vessel
Cleaning the grit from your skeleton
And smoothing the bumps of your skin
Your intestines are no longer flesh
But smooth porcelain
Beautiful and strange
You are made anew
The mad scientist
And his creature
All at once
Who would deny you
The Divine Alchemy of the Flesh
The Holiness of Transmutation
The Blessed Metamorphosis
Who are they to say
That you are insane
For wanting more
Than they could ever
Conceive of
Who are they to assume
You are not you.
Lightning strikes
And the world
Will shake with
Violent tremors
As you rise
From your chrysalis
And take your first
Step in the shape
You have carved
Out in the hollow