I exhale and turn my bones into straw.
Let fall the cage to collapse around my
heart. I exhale and blank lungs crinkle
like paper; paper is unsuitable
for taking this burden from my breath.
My carcass will splay out like a
whale fall.
My body will relax into dust,
ribs allow visitors into the
hallway to hang their hats and
coats.
I breathe out gales of mica,
minerals or sterile paper flakes.
Now empty, the hut can kneel into
ruin, its footprints the concentric
ripples of what was once
weight-bearing.
I breathe out carbon and the logs
on the fire
no longer reach.
— M. Walker lives in the Pacific Northwest and enjoys tea, conspiracy enthusiasm, and improbable coincidences.