Dream Pulp

Line of victims, four body bags. Blue
lips, icicle limbs. I want you
to touch me. You cannot
hear, cover me in paper sheets.

~

Tombs in corn fields. I lie below stone,
listen through earth: the grind of winter
hands, hysteria of children. Decapitated
stalks sway over my grave.

~

I am shoveled out. Pale, doll
eyed, not yet begun to rot. I remember
ice, waking. Nothing between. I shake
away clumps of earth still caked in hair.

~

The only way out is a woman's scream,
touch me, dead hands like rain.
I levitate, air light beneath my feet.

**first published in Arsenic Lobster, Issue #7, Spring 2005