I’m still not used to how skin strays out of place 
as I get older. One day I felt a new wrinkle emerge 
on my chin. The skin gave up with a nearly audible pop, 

and there I was, a step closer to being flattened by gravity. 
The round softness of my face is now angular, my mouth 
droops even when closed, and my eyes cry while smiling.

The first arthritic joint came just as suddenly—a knob 
burst on my index finger like a volcano from the earth’s 
crust. A mound remains, intent on another eruption.

Last summer, a small, black bump high on one thigh 
sent me to the dermatologist, who said not to worry—
and, by the way, the other various and sundry bumps 

on my legs and arms are just barnacles. It’s as though 
I’m a boat that needs its keel scraped, or an old dock, 
pilings crusted with ocean detritus. I try not to think 

about any of this, and I don’t, except when a random 
glimpse in a mirror or window makes me wonder 
who that crone could possibly be.
                        

My skeleton is living rock 
that talks to anything mineral—

one on one, marrow to marrow—

boulder, pebble, sand, whatever 
is handy—comparing notes 

on what it’s like to be porous, 

what joints hurt when it rains, 
the risks and rewards of sunbathing—

and the latest gossip—who has fallen 

or rolled away, whose children never 
visit, and who is the oldest, eroded, 

fragile. My bones pine for the earth 

they came from, where they can visit 
their relations unmuffled by flesh— 

no more shouting to be heard.
                        

flattened penny 
in the dirt road—
Lincoln worn away 

would it spend 
if I took it 
to the store? 

it’s a relic 
of olden days
dropped 

by some drifter 
with holes 
in his pockets

I hope he got
across the Styx
anyway—

my good luck 
ferries me home