Bird • Bones

Over 80% of the planet’s surface is a result of volcanic eruptions

You fantasized about fossils as a kid.
Told me you wanted to get a tattoo
of a sandpiper’s skeleton cradled in the convex nest
under your eye. Parents said don’t ever get a tattoo,
grabbed your hand & scraped the ash
out from under your nails.

—years like beach rock—

Parents said if you get a tattoo,
get one that’s only seen when you undress for someone.
are undressed for someone.

Which meant the one, two, five, six-six-sixty
men downtown when you walked alone,
dispatched coat of feathers like a forest
swallowed by its own creator.
These men, they never touched you—
their fingers were too busy digging.
Feigned vulnerability with their naked eyes,
envisioned a striptease in return.

I understand now that you want people
to see the beauty of death on your skin.
Still as lake water. Cracker-like skull as a winged promise,
open beak burned until it forms igneous ink.

The fossilized bird is always singing like a vessel.
That’s why you never do, anymore.

We kissed on top of the lighthouse
on top of the world & you were wearing
magma mascara, & the tips of your lashes were like
glowing embers, cigarette butts.
(Or was that just the hue of distant wildfires
carried through the salted wind…)

As if every time you blinked, volcanic gasses
fell again—rewound—again, quiet videocassette.

The phone has been ringing for weeks, quiet.
& maybe you are imagining my voice
like a songbird. This morning I reached back
& touched my spine the way you had;
like a marrow toothpick in my palm, my hip bone
a perfect layer of paint hardened,
stripped from its wall—

The scent of scorched feathers fleeted
from the room like a dream. Almost as if the bed

was sinking.

"Bird • Bones" by Danae Younge

Bird • Bones

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