Our skin the smell of something starving,
like hungry hounds we hunt
the secrets in our bones, excavated.
Pilgrims of the spine, we
search, sharp and dirty nails,
sink teeth into dead-end
nerves and obsolete words.
Obsesses, we retrace our steps,
revisit cracks, we trespass.
Migrating across vertebrae,
dragging trails over places we've claimed to be,
avowing sovereignty.
Digging trenches in the cavities, hollow spaces,
tiring to find the disembodied places
we may have left ourselves.
