Tiki

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You’ve been scrimshawed from within,
bones knurled and sculpted
by parasitic artisans, nematodes
at work on the Sistine Chapel
of rib cage and clavicle.

Your pelvis is rendered Corinthian
by unknown flukes, fleurs-de-lys
adorn the sacrum, your skull
is intaglioed like a Mayan stele.
Your doctor marvels

at the odd protuberances,
repudiates current practice
and takes up phrenology. Your wife
is disturbed by the knobbiness
of your embrace, is secretly grateful

that at least a part of you
hasn’t changed. The x-rays reveal
everything, the work of art
you’ve become, a baroque masterpiece
beneath the skin. Your nightmares

are filled with sawbones
in a flensing frenzy. Prematurely,
art collectors and osteologists alike
offer millions for your memento mori.
You’re losing weight, you’re skin and bones.
Caryatides are giving you the eye.

Tiki originally appeared in Asimov's SF (July 1995).

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