AUTHOR: Aeriel Holman


Approx. Words: 275

DATE: May 2012 (at the latest)

NOTES: This was the first paragraph poem I did a semester or so ago. It's been a while simply because I couldn't find this copy for a bit. This is actually the doctored up version I rewrite for my final project. I had to painstakingly retype it to put it up here, so, please enjoy. My fingers did not appreciate it. LOL.


My Skull

There's a human skull in my bedroom. Not mine of course, but sort of. I meant to say I made it, way back when they deemed me a moody teen. I never wore coal colored clothes, never considered myself anything other than white bread. So, I can't tell you why a made a Dia De Los Muertos skull, only that I didn't mean to keep it. I did, I did keep it, I kept the little skull 'till it got dusty, looking like it was appropriately abandoned in the Mojave Desert. It barely fits in my palm and it needs another glaze of white to match my milky wrist. It's rougher than I remember, but the scratches and bubbles of trapped air make it look realer, really real, as if there could have been searching windows-to-the-souls in those sockets. Said sockets are sunk in, hued more like moss than shadowy-black. There that abnormal nose that connects to the forehead like a bride of memories. The skull has no lower jaw, yet yellow upper teeth (like a smoker who got lost in that desert, ripping off their face for one last light, trying to breathe in the waving heat instead of nicotine and tar and rat poison). And the back extends too far—reminding me of an alien. It's weird, that's for sure. As weird as me. My favorite thing about it, though, is the flowering blossoming in the textured Temple. The best scouring (a technical term for clay-working) I've ever done is that baby pink flower, splashed in blood-orange speckle, that looks too tattered, too clever, to be mine. Of course. But sort of.