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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

a poem


72 was a dry tongue draped

from the mouth of a dead dog,

his sprawling ashy-wheat

December hairs prickling from their winter bleach.

a black lace sky, capillaries spreading across dusk;

this old elephant skin hovers above

in suffocating pose.

i wondered if i knew the bloated body found some ways downstream.

it was mostly in pieces, still i drove to collect it,

eyes dug up with old dirt mounding along the lower lids.

under the circumstances an ambulance just whizzed by

and the street light sizzled a gassy heat around her bubble of

listless hunchers and pokers.

i realize this is not fate or coincidence, only time looping back

to a familiar spot among stark cold strangers--

if i never saw her again it would mostly clear up the whole incidence

and if i found her, this would quickly become a devouring lifetime

gnawing my back, frothing at my heels,

a simpering tide.

she had spent decades over-eating, insulating herself

her heart burning, full of snow.

her eyes shrinking piggier

to small, primitive stars,

her mouth a lapse of meat streaked with fat.

i shook my hollowed fist

rattling the loosed molars i found

and could tell from their pitch

that they weren't hers.


Submitted: May 21, 2013

© Copyright 2020 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.

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