Pink Hearse

On Revisiting the Past

Spoiling my track record

I have wished for a time machine

Three times in three days this week.


Julie asks me to speak to my parts like

They are my childhood body.

I think about the crimes it committed

Against its most adamant admirer

And decide not to dress my fear in feathers.


I clean out my garage and open the floodgates.

One hundred women I could have helped

If I had known better.

One hundred sisters whose kinship I burnt to dust.

They’re funny, the things that I will try to

Shove back into the toothpaste tube.

Even now,

I cannot make myself believe that it is

Difficult to scream “fire!” with

Strong hands around your neck.

Julie tells me to walk through the ruins

And pity the child who built cities from wood.

I consider it a mercy killing.


Your face arrives on cue and that

Familiar itch crawls across my skin.

You were never quite real to me,

Always urging upwards a

Wonderland smile,

Rising bubble from your depths.

To the shape-shifting alchemist trapped in the Column Still:

I’m sorry for filling the mass grave with more poems about

What your gravity feels like from far away but

I am reconciling the fact that

You don’t wear me anymore.

Every time I cook for someone I love

You are the one stirring the pot.

Would you believe me if I told you I’m sorry,



Do you bruise every time your name

Rests on my tongue?

Even after all this time?



This entry was published on April 23, 2017 at 3:58 am. It’s filed under Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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