i.
must be nice being a live-in crypt-keeper
lounging on stones till they fall over
keeping the grass warm for ‘em
ii.
i sip my juice glass of box wine
i make eye contact with the deer, freezing
a woman feeds them breadcrumbs from her car around noon
and they all saunter over
gods examining their offerings
on an altar in the mausoleum parking lot
when the sun sets, they approach loose dirt and chew
on the marigolds some suckers planted
in fits of poetic reverent irony
and i watch them(and i know they hate the taste
or i bite my cheek and know they’re supposed to)
iii.
i always wanted to live in a crypt
stained glass concrete windows
and little kids wondering what might be inside
like the doors to dracula’s castle
too distant for curious fists to reach
no wi-fi no hi-byes
no glowing screens
or angry yellow eyes through dusty curtains
and no need to save my neighbors’ numbers
or pretend the empty apple tree don’t bother me
iv.
after a while
meeting people who think they’re immortal stops being funny
like a joke you tell a thousand times
till you realize no one’s laughing
or the birthday card in the dust below your bed
that you now force to live on your wall
maybe i’ve lived here too long
because i used to climb that apple tree
just like she climbed a cherry tree in italy
just like the poor talented ghost who one day became it
but one by one we all swung down
and now none of us know what season it is,
just that it’s colder than it was when we first stepped off the grass
on a rainy day in april
because the deer don’t come near me anymore
they know i’m always empty-handed,
always hear my shivering bones approaching
when they fall asleep laying on her chest
v.
i stay awake, surrounded
at the kitchen table,
heating up the meatballs we found in her freezer
and sipping box wine with one ice cube ringing against the glass
a couple blocks away
Sep 22, 2024
Sep 22, 2024 at 10:37 AM UTC
i.
must be nice being a live-in crypt-keeper
lounging on stones till they fall over
keeping the grass warm for ‘em
ii.
i sip my juice glass of box wine
i make eye contact with the deer, freezing
a woman feeds them breadcrumbs from her car around noon
and they all saunter over
gods examining their offerings
on an altar in the mausoleum parking lot
when the sun sets, they approach loose dirt and chew
on the marigolds some suckers planted
in fits of poetic reverent irony
and i watch them(and i know they hate the taste
or i bite my cheek and know they’re supposed to)
iii.
i always wanted to live in a crypt
stained glass concrete windows
and little kids wondering what might be inside
like the doors to dracula’s castle
too distant for curious fists to reach
no wi-fi no hi-byes
no glowing screens
or angry yellow eyes through dusty curtains
and no need to save my neighbors’ numbers
or pretend the empty apple tree don’t bother me
iv.
after a while
meeting people who think they’re immortal stops being funny
like a joke you tell a thousand times
till you realize no one’s laughing
or the birthday card in the dust below your bed
that you now force to live on your wall
maybe i’ve lived here too long
because i used to climb that apple tree
just like she climbed a cherry tree in italy
just like the poor talented ghost who one day became it
but one by one we all swung down
and now none of us know what season it is,
just that it’s colder than it was when we first stepped off the grass
on a rainy day in april
because the deer don’t come near me anymore
they know i’m always empty-handed,
always hear my shivering bones approaching
when they fall asleep laying on her chest
v.
i stay awake, surrounded
at the kitchen table,
heating up the meatballs we found in her freezer
and sipping box wine with one ice cube ringing against the glass
a couple blocks away
--written 10/18/2020--
