The Dance

you’ve finally caught her, across the room, promises of fairy tale castles and big screen love— scenes in your eyes—I remember being her, once in the days before I became a rotting corpse waiting by the telephone, in the dark, in our bed, always waiting for you to come back home.

one last pastel-colored cocktail and she is yours for ever, or just tonight, whatever you decide her role will be. she glides through the walls of human flesh toward you as if summoned, and here, far away, I know exactly what you are thinking, lying here, rotting from my hollow places begging for just one last bite from your hard, sharp axe, before you plow me under.

back to issue