Pterobranchs

The corpse is yours, or will be,
At the bottom of the sea,
Your bones providing the homes.

Those aren’t pearls that were your eyes.
Those are little, branching lives
That sprout where you used to be,

Hungry outline, feathery
Extensions of your remains,
Growing on you once you’re gone,

Housing until they move on,
Or until some undersea
Silt slides and buries them, too.