The Skulls

There is a skull on my bookcase.

I do not know its origin.

It is illegal to keep human remains

In your home,

Unless they are your own.

I tell my friends it is a reproduction

In detailed resin.

Some take a second look

And have questions they do not voice.

Others accept my word.


One night,

While I sat by the fire,

The wavering flames

Made shadows of its eyes.

It turned its gaze on me;

Images came, hot and hard,

Of a lover,

Tangled sheets, sweat-drenched skin,

And the aroma of lust.


Upon the shelf,

The yellowed teeth clacked and chattered.

The  mandibular hinge creaked. 

‘Find her,’ it said,

‘Bring her,’ it demanded.


The soil was soft and invited my spade.

The excavation swift,

My goal barely three feet down.

A cheap end to life:

A shallow grave and no coffin,

Only a tattered shroud,

Blackened in places where rot had dined.


There are two skulls on my bookcase,

One robust,

The other gracile.

I know the origin of one,

And tell my friends they are a pair,

A fine reproduction in detailed resin.

March 2020



I actually do have a couple of reproduction skulls sitting on my bookcase. I was staring at them one evening and wondered what the story behind them might be if they were real. This came out.



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