Crowded tombstones
in the Jewish cemetery
jut out like the crooked teeth
she doesn’t have.
“We have good cheekbones,”
she says, smiling and pressing
the tips of her fingers
into her fleshy face.
Because it’s all about the bones,
isn’t it? I’m big-boned,
not brittle-boned,
no runway modeling or osteoporosis.
I’m marked
by skull and crossbones
like a warning label for my toxicity—
my caustic tone.
It’s a voice she’d never wear.
She is a breezy floral skirt
and open-toed sandals,
and sometimes,
when she smiles,
the skeletons stir below.
Sequoya Review 