Lonesome Fowl

Graphic

 

Dead girl taps on the door, eases it open.

 

Daylight is a line across the hardwood floor.

Daylight is a line fading yellow under the rug.

 

Death is not a door; it is a jar left uncapped for years.

Now that jar has been filled with dust.

 

 

Dead girl stows her right hand inside the closet,

her left eye inside the bottom drawer,

her ears on top of the mantel,

her feet in the area under the easy chair.
 

 

 

 

Upturned

   

Here's to the restlessness

of an upturned spoon:

 

We huddle, side by side on

the ground. Flat dolls we are.

 

This repose is impossible.

We are not supposed to budge,

 

and the sky will not give us something to catch.