Public Burial
A Poem
Below the streets of Paris lie the bones of our ancestors.
Not our ancestors — bones in the larger sense of those
that used to live above with us now entombed on top
of one another like an array of orchestra instruments
and chairs, bits of felt & metal & wood jutting out
in all directions — femurs of light streaming down
from street level, casting shadows, casting reflection.
A stack of bones has a musky dead-mouse smell
of seriousness — intoxicating enough to trigger larceny.
You want to put the bones back inside yourself where they
belong — bring them home to children covered in sewer ash
and scraps of hair. While it’s illegal to remove dead people
from dark places, I forgive the tourist. I cannot forgive
the sound of air as it escapes a lung.
©️Trapper Markelz 2025
If you enjoyed this poem, please consider my book Childproof Sky, a 2023 Cherry Dress Chapbook selection. Available now!
