Self as Cenotaph

Elisa Karbin


Fallow as clay, I open myself

each night to search my ribs for a trace,

some small creak of bone, or among

the soot-strewn, some pink amulet

to salvage.        Moonstone and onyx

cracked under my skin for so long.

Now I need dusting out. A fair shake

and I’ll be winded again, a skin

husk flaunting its weightless white

under the full belly of the moon.