37



On fire at the apothecary,

all that effort, melting in sealed boxes.

Aisle upon aisle of hot ashes

on robin-speckled linoleum tile.


You, still running in your rubber-sole flats.  


Me, vapid in eye, ever here, hovering,

watching you fly through the teetering racks,

down and back, manic, lover to mothering.


You look uncomfortable, all that crying.


Maybe no need for lipstick and lashes.

Maybe it's best you take off your stockings.

Maybe if you ran in your lingerie ... 

     or maybe it's best that you just strip down.

Why not?  This place is burning to the ground.


 

originally published by Electric Literature

anthologized in Devouring the Green (Jaded Ibis, 2015)