One might expect a very small house to be made of them. It isn’t so. It’s time to confess, and I will. Tomato skeletons hiss with scarlet caviar, likewise delicately crisp mouse bones, especially the toes, not the teeth, as one might imagine. Incarnadine shadows play over lairs where toads have no need to pretend such bones do not occupy the fen’s sense of smell. Turtles, too, know it’s mouse bones all the way down, or until the soles of one’s golden shoes crumble into mold, and the ways to put them on is, then, forgotten and the subsequent gelatinous intricacies seem to dissolve, plangent as an afternoon wearing itself thin. So surmised itself a vacuum sucking white apple hair and the lint roller still finding black hairs I can’t see seeming to suggest what I meant wasn’t even death after all.
Theodore Worozbyt is the recipient of grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Alabama and Georgia Arts Councils. His books are The Dauber Wings, Letters of Transit, and Smaller Than Death.