- The bones on the museum floor behind the do not cross tape
fragment in structured pilespolished for display but unlabeled
left alone while your mother searchesfor a pamphlet or cell service or a way out
you try to force them together skull piece
rib bone slice curved spine
ankle garnet
sometimes they're smaller than your thumbnails—bone chips separating in the rain 150 million years ago
can you imagine how the rain would slickthe scales of ankylosaurus washing off oil & loam
did she open her mouth to the skythe cool spring running through her teeth?
your young sorrow is a thickness in your chest saccharine & forked
you slip a pockmarked bone into your pocketlater dream of bloodmeal & a clouded sky [End Page 47]
Hannah V. Warren is a doctoral student in the English department at the University of Georgia, where she studies poetry and speculative narratives. Her poetry collection [re]construction of the necromancer won Sundress Publications' 2019 Chapbook Contest, and her works have haunted or will soon appear in Mid-American Review, Moon City Review, Passages North, and Fairy Tale Review.