Rosalyn Cowart

At Breakfast I Asked About the Burning of Bones

I imagined them starting at the top
lighting the end of each tight curl
like a birthday candle
until the flame hit their fingers
and the matches fell
littering her forehead,
her outer ear.
Momma pulled the spoon
from the sugar,
dipped it in the tiny jar,
and filled my small palm
with grey.
I found teeth,
flakes of her spine
and ankles,
but what happens to eyes in fire
to lips,
to cheeks,
to knees?
Where does the blue go,
and all that pink?


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