Skin

My skin
turned against
me
folded desires,
precision points
like arrows in a map
signifying
places where 
no one goes 
unless
the wind is roaring 
the earth is trembling
and the sun is burning 
after you and I are gone
my hips framing my belly
my buttocks 
bearing the tip of my spine
this delicate skeleton of mine
will never need your attention
Unless 
you collect unidentified bones
DNA poems
passovers of sordid rituals
and lamentations 
of textiles remains.
Or
souls buried deep, deep
in our own
native language.