Ashes

[71degrees]

You're powder now
like the stuff mom puts on her face,
or like late November snow
that struggles to hide
amber leaves.

Maybe you're just the teeth
that used to chew
Thanksgiving dinners.
I wonder what the dentist did
with the bits of you he stole—
your wisdom.

Maybe you're skin
dust still floating
in the living room,
unveiled by a sliver of sun.

Maybe you're a white orb,
the secrete of a photograph—
a perfect circle.

Maybe you're the bedbugs
that might be on the old couch
we probably shouldn't touch.
With bleach you'll die soon enough,
and maybe you'll be you again.

The repetition of "maybe" lends itself to "...ashes to ashes" quite well.  Some poems are more readable.  This lends itself to that arena.  I like that you "know" what YOU are but still take the time to pause and reinvent for others who might not have known YOU.  The dentist bit is wonderful.  Ending with "bedbugs" and "bleach" and an "old" couch presents the reader with the other side of the teeter-totter...maybe YOU weren't as great as you once remembered.  Time does that, doesn't it?

Great read.  There's Alzheimer's written all over this, especially the last line (at least for me).  Nicely done.