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