Body Wrench
        Emma

We wear black veils to the funeral
and the coffins held light like a basket.

It is August. Our clothes swelter.
The trees that line their plot are unsavory.

I do not cry and do not sleep.

Beneath the clothes, my body is falling
apart, becoming illuminated

with flame,

and they are not here:

I do not grieve
I do not grieve

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Copyright © 2019 Zefyr Lisowski All rights reserved
from Blood Box
Black Lawrence Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission