You're powder now
like the stuff mom puts on her face,
or like late November snow
that struggles to hide
amber leaves.
Or maybe you're just the teeth
that used to chew
thanksgiving dinners.
I wonder what the dentist did
with the bits of you he stole—
your wisdom.
Maybe you're micro-flakes
of skin still floating
in the living room,
unveiled by a sliver of sun.
Maybe you're a white orb
in paranormal photographs—
a perfect circle.
Maybe you're the bedbugs
that might be on the old couch
we probably shouldn't touch.
With bleach you'll die soon enough,
and maybe you'll be you again.