in the bone thrift shop

we hold up skulls
in the bone thrift store
asking each other
"what would i look like
inside the cavern of lion?"
& "could my body fit these ribs?"
we drop off spare metatarsals
gathered in plastic bags &
a femur none of us knew
what to do with. 
these bones will be priced
& then join the others
on dusty shelves. there is
no blood at all in the store.
we leave that for parking lots 
& knife thoughts. instead, we wander
like bed sheets. souls thick as dough.
curious, i am wondering
what of myself is housed in bone. 
could a whales finger let me know
the sound a quiet ocean keeps?
teach me to yearn myself deeper.
sometimes i dig a hole in the yard
in search of more bones.
stand in the crater & stare up
at the squirrel skull moon.
i seldom find one but when i do
i treat it like an addition
to the house. my father used to talk
dreamily about building 
another room onto our home.
this is how i think of my body like
maybe all i need is 
another space. a new limb 
or organ bunker. at the shop, bones
are often used & fractured.
i take some anyway. a snapped tibia
& nearly shattered vertabrae.
hold them in my hands. let them
windchime & rustle. to rid them
of lingering spirit
i could hang them from the tree
in our backyard. instead i'm wearing them
before we even excite. they sting
& tremble. oh monster body,
i love your insistence that i not rest
for in this blurr i find
the most dangerous parts
of creaturehood. you say 
"will you love me with a boar skull?"
i say, "i already have three
just inside my chest." 

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