were made of something heavier than bone, more like flint or quartz. A field of grass was like a sinking bog to us. The ocean hung above our heads, like poison gas. Falling, our bones would never break. We'd break whatever we landed on, instead, small trees, each other. We'd leave a wake of broken things. In death we'd look like dead soft animals, caught in traps of stone, a spread out cairn we'd slowly rot inside. We came back as tools, as monuments, our bones glitter from walls and pathways, are displayed in museum cases, dated from a people who came long after us, who found us useful.