What part of me
is poetry or prose?
Are my bones the ribs of silence?
Do my teeth need a tongue,
grinding and crunching?
Yet they bite with tenderness,
like feathers,
closing on eyelids.
Does my heart grow tired
of its traveling?
I hear its footsteps in the night
and wish it had some rest and peace.
And why is my blood
the color of cardinal flowers?
Are rubies the dried tears
of ancient animals
who left only that part behind?
Will my blood be worn
around a woman’s neck
with a poem inside it?