It used to be a favorite hobby of mine,
killing and re-animating you.
I read an article that said the tendency
to rewatch familiar television programs
is most common in women with anxiety disorders, who
gravitate towards the rhythm of a story with expected beats.
Boom.
You’re dead on the floor.
Boom.
Everyone brings me a casserole.
Boom.
Your calloused fingers pop through the cemetery dirt.
I never much minded the smell.
I learned not to ask about the specifics of what went on
beneath the ground, how the maggots burrowed
through the plywood slats of your coffin
(Cheap wood is the easiest for men to break out of.
It is also the easiest for worms to break into.
You refused to acknowledge either factor
but often reminded me it made for great set decorations.)
I’m leaning up against the end credits now, a repetitive scene
shot in a room that has forgotten what you smell like,
staged on worn carpet, vacuumed over seven times
since you lost your belt in the mess beneath my bed.
With the tap of a ten-digit code, I could summon the opening sequence.
But for all the years I dragged you from the grave,
I actively denied the world of six feet by two feet of nutrient rich soil.
For all the nights I hit replay,
I refused to imagine what it would be like to watch you decompose.
I clung to your corpse,
Where I could have had fungi and flowers.
killing and re-animating you.
I read an article that said the tendency
to rewatch familiar television programs
is most common in women with anxiety disorders, who
gravitate towards the rhythm of a story with expected beats.
Boom.
You’re dead on the floor.
Boom.
Everyone brings me a casserole.
Boom.
Your calloused fingers pop through the cemetery dirt.
I never much minded the smell.
I learned not to ask about the specifics of what went on
beneath the ground, how the maggots burrowed
through the plywood slats of your coffin
(Cheap wood is the easiest for men to break out of.
It is also the easiest for worms to break into.
You refused to acknowledge either factor
but often reminded me it made for great set decorations.)
I’m leaning up against the end credits now, a repetitive scene
shot in a room that has forgotten what you smell like,
staged on worn carpet, vacuumed over seven times
since you lost your belt in the mess beneath my bed.
With the tap of a ten-digit code, I could summon the opening sequence.
But for all the years I dragged you from the grave,
I actively denied the world of six feet by two feet of nutrient rich soil.
For all the nights I hit replay,
I refused to imagine what it would be like to watch you decompose.
I clung to your corpse,
Where I could have had fungi and flowers.
( Laur Wheeler )
www.ChordsAZ.com