A rib becomes a branch
an earlobe an acorn
my teeth, the serrate edge of a leaf
See my feet, club moss
Even my dandruff appears in
dusty lichen
Somewhere out here are my eyes too
my liver as feather in the blood
of a crest
The pileated who owns my voice
vacates my shrieks to hollows
for wood ducks
Beneath me
surgeon ants poise to amputate
injured legs
when memory, my marrow
passes on its heavy foot
What am I next to be
The purple hood, the white lip and spur
of the showy lady’s slipper
a horned fungus beetle
ready to feign death when threatened
Or likely just this humble hobblebush
recalling in its heart-shaped leaves
the rumor that once was me