Made For Holding

I have never seen skin
leave the body, but
I imagine it happens
slowly.

These layers
which now have no
name peel like mold
from walls– one morsel
after the other, unraveling

into Death. Maybe, this body
is but a thing made for
holding. Maybe, we are born
into caskets filling up
with Time

–Time that bends
and flattens to make room
for our bones– but someday

this blood will thin beneath
clock hands and our flesh
will soften like aged fruit.

And then, Time
will squeeze us out
of ourselves to make
room for new life.


I have never seen skin
leave the body, but
I imagine it is like
a faucet

that drips,
and drips, so slowly,
until finally the sink is
filled up. And then,

this body/this
carcass/this thing
made for holding

is unbirthed
back into the earth,

food for the worms.