Graduate Seminar 1__Summer In-Residence 2013

Poetry of the Absurd

Parlor

If I were living, released from stretched coffin rigor,

eyebrows spray toothbrushed refusing death’s glower,

dry whiting-gray dismissed from throbless temples,

prickless  chin  neckresting toward autopsied chest,

honor medals jacketpinned in proper configuration,

skull stitches wrong-checked for coroner’s brain matter,

fitted gently on softing pillow’s settled satin rest,

thumb believe-pressed for life against embalming,

final seeking for blue, red veins under lashed lids lifted,

lips slack-wide into powder-rouged graying pallor,

lower half hidden under cherry grain’s already buried,

bruised ankles turned outward footholds ignoring,

black-blued chokehold under shirtstays pointing downward,

violent’s indifference kicking from a rug bound stepstool,

I would hear you cry oxygenlessly disbelieving,

“He is not my husband.”

Standard

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