The Frequent Rebirth of the World at 21 New Globe Walk by Julie Megason

Centuries after I died, you found my bones by the river,

Strewn exactly as you left me.

Except what was once full was now a crescent, an arc,

a rind without the soft tissues that held me together.

I was but an ivory ruin of the world I once contained.

You know, they once trusted me to hold both heaven and hell.

They bathed my soft skin in carmilians and blues. 

Laid my hair just right atop my head.

They cheered and they cried and they stuffed my belly with straw.

I got to live long enough to solidify in place, 

to try to make someone feel something.

And then, I was a parking lot.

A bomb in my head set me on fire once;

my entrails all ran from the scene.

I let them rip me from the ground and shake my very bones,

So that they could escape their grey lives.

More often than I would admit, my body twisted 

solely to align with my father’s ideals.

Let me live.

Just one time, nice and sturdy.

Rebuild me with cashmere and oak.

Bind my ribs with wires, I dare you, lover.

I am the world.