My body is a graveyard
of fragmented memories, swollen words
and skeletal images.
My body is a graveyard.
You stroll through in broad daylight
to collect up the bones of yesterday’s dreams, stories, and misplaced socks.
My body is a graveyard.
You hang out until the witching hour
to be serenaded by ghosts of young feet, loud laughter, and half smiles.
My body is a graveyard.
That howls out to the moon
as I move my joints with the perfect snap, crack and pop.
My body is a graveyard.
I haunt every day
pluck at memories to place in the haunted house of my mouth.
My body is a graveyard.
Where the only skeletons
all return to me and we all rest in pieces.
Poetic Trials 