niches of listless clouds waited,
they were talking about it today:
the boy that died, face down
the people sighed, he had eyes full of towns
and hamlets, waiting in fistfuls of dirt
what did I know about the ways of living?
It hurt, the melancholy indifference,
he clutched a book in his hands, they said.
I borrowed the man’s leather jacket
stood on balding grass, waiting, listening
I thought about the space between his rib cage
and, just how many
animals were waiting to lick at the marrow?
In this world today, it’s hard to make a living, they sighed.
Repeat the mantra,
and it might feel better.
The price of gas, lies within so many plastic
vases, vials of water
flowers for the dead; cut and abandoned.
One day, they knew I’d marry that man,
who didn’t want to grow up.
It began in the spring, it was over by summertime.
I am one year older and still look the same. Older and younger.
I go missing for months,
making smaller and smaller rib cages,
they burn candles for the boy.
The man pushes my calves apart after six months.
I have a new job, and I try
to hold the weight of water in between my clavicles.
Did they bury the boy face down?
The beginning will be the same as the end.