It's Still Life

Before the Bleaching

mortality’s breath
is in your salt-bleached bones

white
as inevitability

something took you here

a grip at the sinewed neck
perhaps

pressure
where breath should pass

the body knows
when it is being ended

the air may have smelled
of metal

the sky may have been blue
or perhaps you blinked
against the rain

none of this
is for the telling

only ribs
keeping their distance

vertebrae
counting themselves
toward the tail

the emptied architecture
of a chest

all evidence
without testimony

and still

one question
survives the bleaching

who were you

before the sun
made an exhibit
of your bones

Revised poem written for Miz Quickly’s prompt from 2017. The image originated from her blog, and I have no details beyond that. ©Misky 2006-2026.