It appeared to be my own.
I came upon it
in the dusky clearing,
floating or laid there, I
could not tell. At a twig’s snap
under my footstep, I
startled, afraid I’d split
the single white bow
in two. Yet I felt no pain.
Mine always did seem
so easy to break. I
thumbed my skin
where it should be. All
were there. What was I to
do with it? Pick it up and throw it
through the dark for the dogs
to chew on, as it may very well
have felt good, their
raw, rubbery mouths confirming
that hunger I’ve rarely ​
gotten to feed. Or
I could leave it, glory
in its facelessness,
a cage’s rung left
isolate. Eve too
likely wished
she’d never turned
from skeleton to woman.