I won’t be able to make it to the cemetery today; I’m lowkey annoyed,
and the concrete faces in black wool remind me of my own skin,
and how I couldn’t bag it and give it away
Haven’t my aunts always told me I look maudlin in dark shades?
Yellow is a better look. If we’re being honest, I want the sun
to split the pines behind the mausoleum, teeter the
doleful gravestones like dominoes, and plow into this buried heart
Hydrogen has always been my color. I’m sure Mom’s straight, white
femur would understand
Featured on Selcouth Station
leave a comment