by Nina Belen Robins
I want to be
a mess
of bones.
Wrist bone,
vertebrae,
ankle nub,
clavicle.
You see,
if I reach to the
ceiling,
there is a rib cage.
The doctors told me
I don’t need to lose more.
But the bones,
so smooth,
so elegant.
What am I if I don’t
show them
off a little?
We hunt elephants
for their tusks.
lust for their ivory,
don’t care that
they die after.
Smooth bones,
flawless bones,
priceless bones.
Don’t you want
to see my bones?
Give me a glass
of ice water
and a salad,
and maybe
we can look at them
together.
Nina Belen Robins is a poet and grocery store employee. She lives with her husband and cats. She wrote the books of poems “Supermarket Diaries” and “A Bed with my Name on It” and can be found at Ninabelenrobins.com.
Boned 