Monday, April 10, 2017

Requiem for the Undead

Let’s talk about alive things
Let’s talk about dead things
Let’s talk about this shall we call it a vision I had
where a dead woman walked across the room, her flesh decaying
though still holding together enough to move her skeleton toward me
When she smiled it tore her face apart
Why am I conjuring this now
when a choir of 72 black-clad singers are belting out
Mozart’s Requiem to a hall full of the half-dead, the man next to me
is sleeping through the whole thing, poor guy, his suit smells
of moth balls, there’s a tiny skull
clenched between my teeth and I can barely breathe
I feel you dripping down my throat, I want to yell out
want my voice to join the chorus
I want that soft-skinned mezzo-soprano
with the pale, slender neck
to be you, or at least to act as a vessel for you
I’m not feeling pretty, or even well-preserved
My face will probably wash off in the rain, so when I step out into the night
I’m relieved to find a clear sky, a full April moon,
and all of my stitches intact
a handful of hair still clutched in my fist,
crawling with bugs

still smelling of her shampoo

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