And now every time you try to write a poem,
it feels like a
eulogy.
You may forget, but the riverbed does not.
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Just tell the lovely ladies of the Auxiliary,
that I’m here to speak to the reports of my demise,
which are being grossly inflated,
I’m contractually obligated to be sixteen twice a month
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I turn back:
a horse from the borders
whinnies in wind
hungry for war.
How freeing it must feel to be spatchcocked.
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If you care what others think, even a little (is it possible to care only a little?), then you will
become a sixteen year old girl writing poems in her notes app at eight P.M. This is supported, of
course, by a because.
there is no escape.
it’s as simple as that.