It’s my birthday and I was gifted a life-size plastic skeleton
by Carly Townsend
I have a bunch of them, different sizes, dancing in my bedroom/ my grandmother too/ dying in the nursing home / freshly 22, I cry sitting in my skeleton’s lap/ I thought she asked me for my hand/ no, HAND-RAIL/ now I let plastic digitals cup my cheek/ I have gotten into the habit of sitting in parking lots / adjusted arm, moved hand, told her you can hold it now / cow-mouthed, unable to talk, only to breathe and make sounds/ I had to wipe off the water falling from her mouth / the hair on her chin I never saw before/ my grandmother said she was scared to die / alone, she had raised my dad / I told her she was brave/ I had to run away / don’t worry, I didn’t say / the nurses told me they are waiting for her son to answer the phone / wrapping blankets around both of us/ I envision holding my younger self / I cried in front of each nurse there / my dad hadn’t come to thanksgiving last year / the body then dying in front of him, he called to ask his daughter what he should do / in the afternoon I found warmth in bits of sun / she said “just play Elvis,” / opening the window / all of my grandparents are dead now / my car stinks / my baby asks me if I’ve been smoking weed / on the birthday skeleton, a card from my love / they tell me “you are tied so intimately with your empathy,” / love / all I need is the bones.