The first time I saw my father’s skeleton

Asleep on the heated metal bed

Pure, white, and complete

Like a student of human anatomy

I’d once, looked him over really carefully

Touching, what I’d remembered

As, the body.  It was said to have been

A Bengalese man, very tall

I’d remembered the Latin terms labeled on the bones

Where the muscles are attached to, where the blood vessels flowed through

Those bumps, looking like hills, the troughs, the valleys

The circular pattern that’s so delicate

Made to, protect the internal organs

Imagine, that life was once

In these places, reproducing.

And now, he’s become too loose and lost his elasticity

Dried, and seemingly easily torn—the earth, wind, water and fire

All left

I stood next to my father’s skeleton—just like I had back then

By the dissection tables

Forcing myself,

To look at him once more, straight, in the face

So, this, is what’s become of life, you are reduced, to nothing but bones and ashes, and that, is where we will all end one day, and, there’s that sense of peace, in the poet, seeing his father’s remains.