Camera,
transport my skin of bones
to the breakfast tables of the first world.
These legs, arms, ribs
without muscle or flesh;
lay them there, inedible stuff.
Your readers, in the salve of their pity,
may impress themselves
with the rawness of their reactions,
be moved. And, yes, I understand:
with the turning of that page, the bones
will be returned to my private ownership.
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