I never gave my bones
much thought when I had form,
flesh. A frame. Inconsequential.
When we died, we could join
our ancestors, our parents,
back and back and back.
I do not remember how I died.
I know that I did. I was mourned,
placed in deference to cross
and return. I watched others,
sisters, sink and rise. I do not know
what I am.

I was not my body. I was not
simply human. Are any of us?
I felt, still feel, the pull Beyond.
I cannot tell where or in which
direction. I stay. I remain.

I loved and was loved
by scavengers, dutifully, gratefully,
playing their part. I was not
flesh. Some scattered me,
my bones, and I did not follow.
I have not felt pain. I was not bone.

Water rose, and I saw the sun
through surface ripples. Eons.
Beautiful.

Two bones left— tibia and fibula.
They are not me. I do not believe.

The sand and silt cover them,
and I hold my watch. Dust.
Desiccation. Crystalline sharp
taste of salt.

Tibia is dust destined, dust borne,
dust released. Grateful.
I am not tibia.

Fibula hardens, stubborn. Like me?
All that is left of my body.
Here I remain.

The dead are tourists passing
through, nodding as they watch
and see and whisper and leave.
I am alone.

Fibula browns, imitates a brother,
mineral. Am I Fibula?
I remain.