By Chloe Spector
The lake wraps its hands
about my ankles,
beckoning me down
to the reeds and crawfish and muck,
to lay in my grief
in an oyster-shell bed,
simple housecoat turning
to shrouds of silk
that sway with the cattails
above the misty green in the rosy dawn.
Maybe, he’ll think of me now,
as my flesh turns to algae
and my soul to a stagnant current.
How much he loved this flesh,
ever so soft.
Maybe, he’ll love it more now.
As it rots.
He loves me.
He loves me not
enough.
Stare into these coffin - whitened eye,
nestled amongst this wreath of calla lilies,
(Skin, page 2, no stanzabreak)
up on my pedestal,
finally revered.
Everything you refused to give
before you turned back,
flows in tears to my body
of haunted water.
Now I have your full attention.
My waterlogged grave
soaks into you,
drips from your putrefying fingers
as your dearly beloved
wishes me well
at my satin - lined bedside,
none the wiser.
Her veil of moss
hangs over her face,
always to be held
above water.