Death is in us, it’s how
we’re born, he said.
The foundling’s silken head
hardened to a bone helmet.
Even the glorious blue
of a Morpho butterfly
held death’s bright glaze—
Momento mori.
Old Yorick was young once,
his unearthed skull fused
from solar ovum
and infinite jest.
The antic flesh
will fracture;
each fragile birth
a wreckage.
Every small salt sea
turns septic, the unborn
cast out, pariah torn
free on a skeleton shore.
Note – italicized portions are from Lane’s “The Last Days of My Mother.”