We, Made of Bone

These days, I refuse to let you see me

the way I see myself.

I wake up in the morning not knowing

whether I will make it through the day;

reminding myself of the small, small things

I’ve forgotten to marvel in;

these trees, blood-free and bone-dry

have come to rescue me more than once,

but my saving often requires hiding

yet they stand so tall, so slim and gluttonous

refusing to contain me; even baobab trees

will split open at my command, and

carve out fleshless wombs to welcome me.

I must fall out of love of the world

without me in it, but my loves have

long gone, and left me in a foreign land

where once I was made of bone,

now water, now nothing.