I see her skeleton, sleeping;
mandible, cheekbone, cranium,
clavicle; the curve of her spine,
a question. I made those bones
even the ones I cannot name.
This bed is a womb and I am with her,
our two curled bodies asking
and asking the questions.
I feel my every bone, the skin
of my face giving way to my
nose, pulled tight across my forehead
like a drum. Each hair as wide as
an oak. I am land; blood gushes
through me, rivers run through me.
She’ll be land one day too, a
three million year old fossil, a Lucy.
When she wakes, I’ll teach her the song
Dry Bones; we’ll learn the names
of the ones we do not know.
Where Lucy’s bones were found
in Ethiopia, they call her Dinkinesh—
they call her you are marvellous.
All these questions without answers,
yet still we ask and carry on
inhabiting our skeletons,
as if we chose to be here,
as if we really are.