Do not pretend that you don't like it
when we threaten you.
We see you getting pheromone stink
under the collar, moaning, baldly.
Motionless, picturing decay.
When we creak your step,
when we crack your glass,
when we tap tap tap,
that is a bone
that is all we have
though we are very shiny,
and filled with beetles.
We are made entirely of bone.
Like an idol.
Like the tusk of some wonderful past.
When you cleave to us,
your skin will fuse,
hot calcium meth,
and in the myth,
you will be named for us.
Danielle Pafunda
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