A technician of forsaken bits,
I trace your broken parts,
Assemble cartographies
Of where you might be.
Mouth full of dead fish,
Melodramatic crybaby.
Stuffed with whispers,
Another sweet epiphany.
A blood-flecked blade.
Giving birth to new grief,
A thunderclap of faith,
Vulgar shapes, stupid flesh.
What remains of our vows,
Ghost limbs, doctrines.
This is the music of escape,
Soundtrack for a slow murder.
Without fear of entrapment,
Conscience, or any whiff
Of loss or abandonment,
Birds spill from a mute sky.
The moon conceals its face,
Calm, frigid, unsinkable.
ABOUT:
Chris D’Errico lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, where he has worked as a cook, a neon sign maker, and an exterminator, among other vocational adventures. His writings and visual art have appeared in various analog and digital mediums for the past 20+ years; most recently in Wild Root Journal, and Panoply, a Literary Zine.
POET'S INSPO CHOICE: The Witching Hour — Emily Magpie
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