thankful village
There is a carved alabaster panel on the east wall
of the local parish church.
And inscribed on its surface are words of gratitude
to God.
The writing is faded and poorly maintained;
a handful of older residents have taken to rubbing dirt
into the lines on their daily commutes
past the tombstones.
Jenny says it’s because nobody died and apparently that’s
something to be happy about.
But of course somebody died.
Why else would there be a graveyard?
Later we drank cider on a bench and watched the
waning light of day filter through old branches.
Somewhere a raven croaked. Elsewhere the church
bells answered.
expression
i repeat my days in much the same way I did
when you were here
kissing the ghosts of your knuckles
and a part of me feels pathetic for smiling
but i do anyway
the last fight
we are in the final death throes of something spectacular
and i know you’re enjoying it—the quiet before it all ends.
how it moves you to know i hate you to the point of
obsession, of desire.
when you leave i will block your number and find my sanity
between the legs of a woman who looks like you did three
years ago. i will kiss her forehead and lose my phone between
the folds of her pillow.
and when she’s asleep i will whisper her name against the
window until the glass fogs up;
i will stay awake all night hoping
you do not reply.
can I have my one minute back
Amazing!