A Poem

Curiosities
(Beth Kephart)

In the shop of garden curiosities,
where butterflies are daggered into extended flight
and fish scales sit quite apart from the fish
in a dish behind the counter,
I choose the bones with you —
the smooth white jewels of death,
the wide-socketed architecture
of pine marten and coyote,
turtle and mouse, zebra
finch the size of fingertips and hollows
in the place of sight so that
we hold them, we
arrange them on the shelves of our hands,
a dozen on my palm,
a dozen on yours,
these unfeathered skulls of birds,
these poem as white as bones.