The bones in your jaw are connected to calcified mountain peaks.
The way you kiss your husband goodnight left an imprint in the fur on the back of a coyote tearing a pregnant cat apart.
The arch of your eyebrows completes the outstretched wings of a vengeful raven.
They don’t want to tell you that the sound of your voice can summon the thunder on a hot summer night.
They don’t want you to know that your sinner’s hands can move mountains.
All were in awe when they discovered the 8th continent in the space in which your vertebrae connect to your shoulder blades.
They want to mine for the iron ore inside of your fallopian tubes.
Your polite refusals and [for the thousandth time] “Really, I’m fine” can be studied in the flight patterns of a flock of birds in search of a new home.
They want to put you in a museum. They are scared to death of the beehive inside of your mind.