Fia Montero Poetry

I.

Stacked exactly in the center of my bed:

vertebrae, clavicles, ribs.  

Leftover pieces of me.  See,

all the rest has been burnished away,

which is to say

I’ve been reduced to mineral and marrow.

II.

I’ve lost myself again, somehow,

in the liminal yawn,

the pallid hollow, the place that swallows

everything but the bones.

III.

But what I mean to say is, today

is a day like yesterday, is a day like tomorrow,

is a day like—

IV.

And: I get why we refer to this as ad nauseam,

And: I get why the caged bird sings. 

But—

V.

what if the pinfold is the same thing

as home? 

What if some days, I prefer being nothing

but bone—

completely undressed of flesh and nerve

and feeling?