The dead ask nothing

The dead ask nothing


Nothing offers no answer.

Life makes demands.

She reminds me of someone.

I once was deeply in love.

The glass is empty,

yet she keeps sipping the straw.


The surgeon’s serrated saw,

severed crown of his skull,

to allow brain swelling.

The detachment is frozen,

in purgatory, in Paris, California,

in as much as I can gather.


I keep making

the same mistakes, over and

over. Eternity is preposterous.

She has same prominent forehead, same

brown silken hair, same slender fingers

as my ex, same buttoned-up betrayal.


“Man-up! You fucking son-of-a-bitch,”

she said, he said, their

ceaseless quarreling

makes me hide.

Stomach knots, breathing hurts.

The allure of her stink.


My sister insists

it will be okay.

The glass is half.

Mom can’t remember.

Everything fits neatly.

She burrows in the booth.


This one needs money,

that one needs parts,

liver, lung, cerebrum, heart.

Her hands cup the glass.

She gazes beyond.

Everything is a lie.




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