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November 25, 2021 Poetry

The Spine

Mitchell Nobis

The Spine photo

While tromping the snowless woods
for a Christmas tree
I stepped on a deer’s spine,
well, half a deer, really,
   which is another mystery in itself.
I called over my son, and
we perused every crag,
the zipper of the vertebrae,
the innumerable pores in the fractured skull.

When I die,
may I be left to rot,
to be found as bones
by the curious future and
   poked at with sticks,
even if for only a minute before
moving on to whatever future task is at hand.
May I be a healthy reminder
of awe
and intricacy.

 

image: David Wright


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