/merrillcole/

 

No, it’s not pornography.

The suture hardly holds.

It sags like old glass.

 

Cut in half,

A smile becomes sellable.

 

No, not ghosts.

The laundry of the dead,

Listing in the wind.

 

Stains quiet in early light.

Among the eyeless dolls

And unpriced socks.

 

Hit with limbo,

The body grows damp.

 

No, call it a garden,

Where sallow flowers bloom

Like low wattage bulbs.

 

concīs (Winter 2016); Dark Sky Magazine (March 2010).