Burial Jars

Egg-shaped. Clay. Earth-groomed.
Crackable. They cradle the slope

of the curled body: arms fetal,
coiled legs. They offer: nest, den,

homecoming. Two can fit
this way, each resigned to the bend

of the other. After, it will take time
to know whose bones are whose. To think,

my femur might be mistaken for your
humerus. Side by side in the museum, we test

the curvature of our own cupped hands,
study the skeletons behind the glass,

the attunement
of those jars of bones.

Annette Frost is a Boston-based poet and the Director of the Favorite Poem Project at Boston University, where she received her MFA in poetry. Frost’s poems have been published in numerous journals and anthologies including Epiphany’s The Writers Studio at 30, Strange Horizons, and Nature Inspired anthologies. She lives in Acton, MA, with her husband and their two cats. She believes in the importance of acknowledging both feelings and climate change.

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