The Ministry of Loneliness Artificial human bones are permitted on domestic flights according to the official memo released on Valentine’s Day and the television is saturated with snowboarding teenagers, the purge of high school students, primordial tears of politicians. You tell me you found a dead body when you were eight years old, the one the police were looking for down river, you thought she was a tree stump but the shredded linen blouse required a second look, your sister threw up the scrambled eggs and half-cooked bacon your mother served that morning. Your father said her eyes were gone, swallowed by radioactive crabs and turtles who savored the juicy flesh, she jumped, you tell me 50 years later, and you never found out why. I want to insert an ice pick into my frontal lobe, the sanctuary of my tear glands, it’s no mystery to me that she wanted buzzards on the highway’s edge, that she pushed herself through the concrete surface of water, that she wanted to die without stranger’s saliva or bullets on her skin. Bio: Beth Gordon is a writer who has been landlocked in St. Louis, Missouri for 16 years but dreams of oceans, daily. Her work has recently appeared in Into the Void, Quail Bell,Calamus Journal, DecomP, Five:2:One, Barzakh, and others. She can be found on Twitter @bethgordonpoet. Comments are closed.
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December 2024
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