icon caret-left icon caret-right instagram pinterest linkedin facebook twitter goodreads question-circle facebook circle twitter circle linkedin circle instagram circle goodreads circle pinterest circle

(or, to support my work with a small monetary contribution, see the Substack link on the left)



The dough lifts the white cotton
rag thrown over it like family
at the coroner's. Sighing, they cry
out it isn't him. Dough breathes in
absolutely like the lungs of the man
who drowned, like how a horse
whose saddle is being cinched tight
for a night journey breathes out.
We arrived like a letter sent to one
who is dead and tomorrow we will
be sent back trodden in stamps
of blue ink, tossed down on a table
cloth littered with breadcrumbs
to be read by the master who wrote it.
Be the first to comment