The Skull

You walked up Tabletop Mountain
And found a skull. A coyote, dog,
Or wolf—you are not sure.
Perhaps a deer. You run
Your finger along the teeth:
Yellowed ivories glowing,
Molars’ compacted surfaces.
Not a single one missing—the animal
Died young. For the skeletal grin
You feel wistful, even as a man.
Is there a secret you missed
Along the way, a better kind of life
Lived among the ruins of nature
Rather than this entrapment
Where you fight your way through
Each urban day, return to the well-kept
House at night. You walked up Tabletop,
Looked far out where the shape-shifting
Begins again between brother
And sister mountains twisting
Sunset-colored crepuscules southwest,
Blued by the moon raising its single horn
In the east. When you picked up
The skull it walked with you, breathed
Through eye sockets wide open
As with the sudden shocked surprise of—
You are not sure which one—
Being dead or carried in your hand.









Judith Skillman’s latest books are Prisoner of the Swifts (Ahadada Books 2009) and Heat Lightning, New and Selected Poems 1986–2006 (Silverfish Review Press 2006). The Never was a finalist in the FIELD/Oberlin Press Contest, and she received an award from the Academy of American Poets for her book Storm (Blue Begonia Press 1998). Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Poetry, FIELD, The Southern Review, The Iowa Review, The Midwest Quarterly, and Seneca Review. A writer, educator, and editor, she holds an MA in English Literature from University of Maryland and lives in Kennydale, Washington. For additional information, visit www.judithskillman.com.