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Bad poetry the pale yellow verse of my body
was whispering against her bed
soft-shelled oyster that she had been
,
tucked within
a polished skeleton that spoke only
from the past
gone but
being forgotten. Wrinkled lips not yet completely seperated
where they would hang for 3 days
,
soon, burning all of the air up
like a firestorm certain
to become an ember. I held her pillow
hands, arms covered with
what I’ve done to myself. Red
bible haunts the nightstand
inside I found the word “harbinger.” Tried
to keep it to my chest where
woebegone was
not felicity. I wondered which heaven
her soul had gone too
and why. A tiny fly with a tiny brain
amongst so much rubble. And her jewelry
was the kind old women wear. I had no more vicodin.
I found a gold pocketwatch
it had also stopped.
