Every time you leave the house,
the skeletons in your closet
dress up in your clothes.
The oldest zips too-tight silk
capris over her fleshless thighs
and slides her metatarsals
into gold, spike heels.
The youngest dips phalanges
into the pockets
of your vintage blazer.
Its padded shoulders define
her clothes hanger frame
as she executes a run-way turn.
The skeleton you want to forget
slips into the satin night gown
that sinks into her pelvic bowl.
The rest of them stand restlessly
waiting to cover wild bones
with the coyote jacket
you have never worn.
They like to pretend
they are hunting rabbits,
snapping their yellow teeth,
and laughing at themselves
and at these clothes that remind
them of what they are
and remind you of who you were.


This poem first appeared in California Quarterly.
Used here with permission.