Suturing

Abstract

Someday I too will be dead but not rotten. The undertaker will have drained my blood into the floor sink that leads to a flood of sewer waste and all I will have gotten was eye gloss and rouge and my lips sewed tight. My lost possessions will fill city dumps. My organs will set in formalin clumps. My skin will be glossy, waxy, and white. That is not the worst. I will not recall revisiting these lines, like parents placed in homes to rest. I worry at my haste to erase, to rewrite, not let it all be enough, this conceptual time, the writing, the reading, the letting go of words held too tightly for them to flow like ink, or blood, or tears, or sense, or rhyme.