empty my bones from the jewelry box;
my grandmother's orange gloves
turned out skin in cigarette smoke

when my grandmother died
we picked though her wardrobe
like paleontologists
hunched over the filleted 
carcass of a triceratops--
her ribs opened wide like
wings-- this is what we
call a jewelry box--
the container to house
what's left of you bones--
i blow the dust off
a pair of orange gloves--
tight like a second skin
my flesh turns into cigarette
smoke-- precarious as a bar stool--
her broaches we can use to 
sew out ribs  back into 
place-- we saved approximations
of the moon
shrunken down to the size 
of these pearl earrings--
what did she see in them?
did she ever use her sunglasses
as a mirror--
when i die i hope you 
are bold enough to wear me--
let me leave green halos
on your fingers from the 
fake gold of my blue-gem
rings-- pull the 
pin through the skin on
your collar bone and
feel how deep my blood used
to run 
when my mother pinned on
my green shawl with a bouquet
of fake stone--
you'll find my irises in a set
of a cheap earrings at the back
of the box--
when you wear them you 
won't be able to help but
to look again and again
at the sky as if hoping it 
will be night--
when you wrap yourself
in my old blue scarf
i wanted you to remember 
the times i had wrapped you
in the absence of my hair--
pull the incense out of 
the seams of another sweater--
how will you tell your friends
that the shirt they like
so much was pulled from
the rib cage of a triceratops--
your parent-- your
brother and you--
pass down the burden of
the paleontologists--
blow the dust off
your parent's bones--
wear my eyes when you're thinking
of taking a walk at night--
find yourself impossibly
draw to becoming
another earring
dangling from the bottom
of the moon--
find a mirror beneath all
the necklaces and 
orphaned pendants so you 
can look at yourself--
touch your face
to find you're still
wearing the orange gloves--
tight tight tight--
blew away like 
cigarette skin.