Nearing Autobiography

　　by Pattiann Rogers

　　 Those are my bones rifted

　　 and curled， knees to chin，

　　 among the rocks on the beach，

　　 my hands splayed beneath my skull

　　 in the mud. Those are my rib

　　 bones resting like white sticks

　　 wracked on the bank， laid down，

　　 delivered， rubbed clean

　　 by river and snow.

　　 Ethereal as seedless weeds

　　 in dim sun and frost， I see

　　 my own bones translucent as locust

　　 husks， light as spider bones，

　　 as filled with light as lantern

　　 bones when the candle flames.

　　 And I see my bones， facile，

　　 willing， rolling and clacking，

　　 reveling like broken shells

　　 among themselves in a tumbling surf.

　　 I recognize them， no other's，

　　 raggedly patterned and wrought，

　　 peeled as a skeleton of sycamore

　　 against gray skies， stiff as a fallen

　　 spruce. I watch them floating

　　 at night， identical lake slivers

　　 flush against the same star bones

　　 drifting in scattered pieces above.

　　 Everything I assemble， all

　　 the constructions I have rendered

　　 are the metal and dust of my locked

　　 and storied bones. My bald cranium

　　 shines blind as the moon

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