they look hollow,
the sockets where the eyes
once were,
or is it the looker
who is hollow?
*
map of the skull—
all the places her dust has been,
all the places it will go
*
it is months
before he can tell her
that her skull is creepy,
that it scares him—
he hides it behind the books
*
across the brow,
a forever stamp,
a lotus, full bloom—
shhhh, don’t tell her
it’s already been canceled
*
golden wings in the back
of her skull,
is it any wonder
every morning
her thoughts fly east?
*
there are monks
who use skulls as a centerpiece—
perhaps as a symbol
of mortality, perhaps
because it’s lovely
*
there’s a red leaf
where her mouth would be—
here hung those lips
that loved
to kiss*
*
all around the skull on the table
are the skulls of the living,
so much shedding left to be done
*
behind the birding book
she finds the skull,
puts it on the table again
*”Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft,” in Hamlet, William Shakespeare