Elisa Karbin
Fallow as clay, I open myself
each night to search my ribs for a trace,
some small creak of bone, or among
the soot-strewn, some pink amulet
to salvage. Moonstone and onyx
cracked under my skin for so long.
Now I need dusting out. A fair shake
and I’ll be winded again, a skin
husk flaunting its weightless white
under the full belly of the moon.